


5 Times They Were Love Pats (+1 Time It Was More of a Spank)

by F_S_Hadknots



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson & Connor Parent-Child Relationship, Hank is taking a light-hearted approach... mostly, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Mock-Punishment, Spanking, but more like love taps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24271900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/F_S_Hadknots/pseuds/F_S_Hadknots
Summary: A collection of moments where Hank bonds with his android kid, even as he bears the bafflement, sullenness and/or mischief that comes with teasing Connor.Or Hank takes it upon himself to show the sophisticated RK-800 that not all physical forms of remonstration are drastic or upsetting. Sometimes these cases can be made in jest, even if Connor may not always appreciate the broad range of his adoptive father's sense of humor.(And then one case where it wasn't so funny for either of them.)
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 66
Kudos: 93





	1. ... And One to Grow On

**Author's Note:**

> I finally finished this first chapter. It's not necessary to read my other fic to enjoy or understand this one, but it's all meant to belong to the same 'verse.
> 
> I've also attached Maplestory-based sprite art to accompany this chapter, so there's that too!
> 
> P.S. I'm enjoying the development of all these ideas for this fandom, though I *do* write slowly (plus, I'm in the middle of several creative projects + work), so don't expect too much too soon, but know that I'm always writing here and there to keep up with these WIPs ^_^
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!

It was August 6th, 2039. Connor knew what the day meant, but wasn’t interested in drawing attention to it. He didn’t know if he should expect anything different at all. That is, until he opened his bedroom door. There, catching him by surprise and inspiring a yellow LED cycle, were a pair of St. Bernard slippers on the floor. An unshapely bow of blue yarn lay atop one of the plush barrels held between paws.

His head only tilted further when the smell of breakfast registered.

Hank was awake at this hour? And _cooking_? Connor knew there couldn’t be anything wrong with his internal timer or his highly-calibrated senses, so that only meant something was wrong with the human - and perhaps the world, as nothing made sense anymore.

Cautiously, the RK detective approached the kitchen entrance, almost expecting to have to confront a complete stranger ransacking their food supplies, as it would make for a more likely scenario than what he was currently witnessing. Hank, still in pajamas and robe, was flipping pancakes pleasantly to the sound of low-volume music.

“Hey, birthday boy!” Hank called out after catching a peek of the hesitant android, who still hung back behind the dividing wall between kitchen and living room. “I was sure I had another half hour or so before you got up.”

“Hank…” Connor analyzed many a confusing factor: the set table, the music of **Now That’s What I Call Music #148** trilling over the portable speaker, and a child-themed candle partially obscured by an unfolded napkin. “What’s going on?”

“Well, you’re barefoot,” Hank responded plainly, as if the answer were obvious and Connor were messing around to avoid the matter at hand. A whisk was flicked to gesture vaguely down the hall before it was used for pouring out the last of the batter onto the sizzling pan. “Didn’t you see what was waiting by your door?”

“I’m honestly confused.”

“Yeah, I got that. And trust me, I’m enjoying that scientific breakthrough.” Playful blue eyes rose to meet brown orbs whose spark of curiosity somewhat flattened at the joke. “You’ll see, alright? Just get something on your feet.”

Connor gave a very teenage “Ugh” under breath, wondering for the upteenth time how it was that Hank, in the middle of his laissez-faire lifestyle, was a stickler for wearing footwear in the morning. And yes, the AC made for a certain chilliness, but Connor enjoyed being barefoot, he found - something about feeling carpet, or tile, or grass under his feet while at home relaxed him.

Sitting on the floor outside his room, he reached out for the slippers, only to stop at the sensation of soft faux-fur. With carefulness that bordered on reverence, Connor continued examining the gift. The beady eyes were nowhere near as soulful as Sumo’s, but the android ascertained that the lolling, terry cloth tongue made up for the difference. Furthermore, the caricaturesque barrels of whisky reminded him of Hank while stripping the association of all its prior negativity.

In awe of the gift’s properties, Connor decided that he could find a way to balance enjoying being barefoot vs. wearing footwear without much difficulty. Slippers snugly situated, bow pocketed, the RK800 stood. Unconsciously scuffing the floor with experimental steps as he wandered in place, Connor considered how to thank his father-figure.

“Hey, did you get lost back there, or what? Your blue pancakes are done.”

“Be right there!” 

He supposed he’d have to make a new entry log on how his birthday was special, after all. 

* * *

The day had been “eventful and _fun_ ,” with Hank getting a kick out of Connor saying so with an absolute air of import and admiration. Anyone would think that Connor had gone sky-diving, not visited an animatronic zoo of sorts and stuffed his face with thirium-based desserts.

“Okay, so you had a good time?”

“Yes, today was...” How to make the older man understand how much this day had meant to him? “I was able to see a triceratops and a wooly mammoth - in the same room, Hank!” By now, Connor was gesticulating freely, eyes darting around the living room as if he were trying to align a mentally stored schematic with the room’s physical occupancy potential.

“Yeah, they looked pretty real. Kinda freaky.”

“Can we see Jurassic Park tonight?” 

The request was abrupt, teasing and expressed with a lopsided smile, but Hank could see the hopeful joy at the prospect of a movie night.

“Sure thing, Con; birthdays are only fucking tolerable because they come with privileges and traditions in the first place. Just let the game finish and we’ll put the movie on.”

“That’s fine.” Connor sat on the couch, next to Hank. Given the 64% of time the human had spent favoring talking over watching the game in the last 20 minutes, not as invested as other times, the android thought it non-intrusive to continue their conversation. Besides, it looked like an easy win for Hank’s long-preferred team. “You mentioned ‘birthday traditions’ before… You mean like that cupcake with a candle you gave me after breakfast?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, cake and candles. You gotta have that. But there’s other cool shit, like souvenirs of the day, and there’s choosing a favorite movie, or a favorite restaurant.”

“I got all of that,” Connor realized out loud, spotting his dinosaur-themed keychain hanging on the rack by the door, surprise making him stupefied with wonder.

“Well, we can’t go half-assed on your first birthday,” Hank said into his soda as he took a swig.

“Any other traditions? I recall seeing a piñata scene in several movies.”

“Hard pass on that, kid. You’d probably take one swing and send that thing fucking _flying_ ,” Hank scoffed. However, once met with a small frown, he couldn’t write the possibility off completely. “How about this - we get a piñata next year, and you can invite people over. I’d pay to see Robo Jesus essentially take a bat to some Disney character while the rest of you scramble all over the floor to get candy.”

“Oh. Yes, we could try that.” And damn if Connor didn’t appear cowed by the very idea of having to invite friends over. It was almost like any kid who feared sending out invitations that would later turn moot with little to no appearances at the party.

“It’d be fun,” Hank assured, warming up to the plan now that it meant bolstering the one-year-old’s confidence. “Hell, the lot of you just recently went to that amusement park together.”

“That was a Jericho event. Some of the former Jerry models missed their old job, so Markus helped open a new park. That was all.”

“C’mon, you guys must’ve hung out a bit.”

“Kind of.” 

Connor didn’t want to admit that most times, he let on that he was socializing to appease Hank’s worries over ‘making friends,’ but he’d barely venture past formal functions. Rather, he’d exit events quite quickly and use the spare time to wander around the city and very possibly visit animal shelters. 

“You were gone for over five hours. That’s a lot for _kind of_ hanging out,” Hank murmured distractedly, eyes back on the TV. 

Connor wished he hadn’t sat to Hank’s left, right temple sure to betray him.

“I may have taken a detour on the way home,” Connor supplied, striving for blaséness as he joined Hank in observing the basketball game. The android didn’t need his fine-tuned optic power to register the scrutiny suddenly weighing on him. 

“Detour? That a fancy way of saying you were fucking around for a few hours?” The murmur was gone, low voice crystallizing into sharper edges.

The android didn’t know whether to agree or not. Hank had a _way_ with words, and what would oftentimes sound unassuming to Connor would actually be an oversimplified rundown of a bad plan. As was his second nature, Hank mocked folly, which then tricked the RK800 into thinking nothing of confession.

_“So, Con, thought to deactivate the fire alarm so it wouldn’t distract you from turning the eggs extra crispy?”_

_“Actually, Hank, I didn’t want the alarm to wake you. And I had the fire under control.”_

And that other time not too long ago…

_“There’s nothing like seeing those first rays of dawn at the DPD after losing track of time, eh, kid?”_

_“It was quite nice. There was a moment in which the light reflected off of that snowglobe on Officer Chen’s desk and -”_

_“Connor, you came home at 7AM, goddamnit!”_

Connor had learned the value of the word ‘curfew’ after that night. He had a feeling he’d face more restrictions if he didn’t play his cards right at the moment as well.

“I wasn’t exactly wasting time for hours,” Connor said with the right halts between words, not at all awkward. But one flash of contact between steely blue and his own hesitant brown had him blurting, “I went to the park!”

“Oh, Connor.” Hank leaned back with a tired huff and ran a hand down his face. “How many times we gotta go through this?”

“I followed all of the recommended protocols for avoiding android harassment.” 

“I’d sure hope so - you helped draft the fucking things!”

“I wasn’t there past dusk, and there were even android families there.”

“You heard about that poor guy that got beat up there last week, in the middle of some barbeque. Those cowards _wait_ for you to feel safe and then strike; crowds and kids won’t deter ‘em.”

“I’m an RK800, Hank.” Connor crossed his arms to prove a point, overly long sleeves almost slapping him in the face as he did so.

“Here we go.” The lieutenant tossed his own hands up in exasperation. “That only makes you more of a target, kid.”

“... I just want to go out like a normal person.”

Listening to Connor refer to himself that way, wishing for something as simple as walks in the park, Hank softened. “Ok, I kinda get it,” he allowed, glad to see Connor relaxing his own posture in response. “So, tell me - what were you even doing there?”

Connor tilted his head, recalling several events: how a jogger had recommended he lay on the grass after she’d seen him standing in a spot for too long. And how after his shift in position, a gaggle of kids had joined him, sure that he was also looking for hidden animals in the clouds. After abundant prodding, Connor admitted to spying an elephant, much to a shared agreement among the pre-teens. But Connor’s favorite part was meeting a cat that accompanied its owner from atop the man’s hat; he remembered the irony of associating ‘crow’s nest’ to the feline post.

“I made meteorological observations, mostly of clouds, and met my first calico angora.” 

“Shit, meteorology.” Hank didn’t sound all that surprised. “Statocumulus, that kinda thing?”

_‘Or cloud versions of an elephant, two horses, a rabbit and, at one magnificent moment, a cluster of_ _Pomeranians_ _.’_

But Connor didn’t want to sound like a child. “Nothing that formal. I guess you could say I was trying to relax.”

“Ah,” the older man spoke in commiseration, sounding like they had reached a topic he knew all too well. “Understandable, Con. I get that some of those Jericho events stress you out. But, son…” Here, Hank paused to make sure Connor was listening. “Still try to keep the ‘detours’ to a minimum, yeah?”

Connor tried not to roll his eyes. Hank wasn’t even watching the game anymore, and the android was sure the time would be better spent if his movie of choice were on - particularly to replace unnecessary lecturing. “Alright, I’ll just walk Sumo 30 times around our immediate neighborhood.”

The older cop ignored the sarcasm. “And if you skip out on plans and do your own thing, try to at least tell me and keep me in the loop.”

“Next time I visit the park, I’ll request back-up, especially if I see a picnic taking place.”

“Hey, watch it, junior,” Hank growled, though his mien was entirely lighthearted. He always enjoyed the more mischievous side to Connor as long as things weren’t too serious.

By now, the younger detective was having a hard time keeping his own smile under wraps, particularly after seeing his father-figure crack a little.

“We should be seeing Jurassic Park,” Connor reminded Hank cheekily. “I thought that since it was my birthday, I’d have ‘dibs,’ as you call it.”

“Yeah, yeah, but the game’s still on. Give it a sec.”

“I could provide commentary,” The android offered loftily, more than aware that Hank did not appreciate his ‘cyber Sherlockisms.’ If Connor wasn’t picking apart old injuries that could affect a player’s performance, he would regale Hank with the athlete’s penchant for not paying parking tickets, or with marital issues, according to tabloids.

“You do that, kid, and see where it gets you.” Hank carelessly swung a pillow Connor’s way. He also rose the volume up several notches.

“A synopsis, then?” the brunette spoke up, matching his volume to that of the TV’s. But in the next second, he remotely controlled the TV to go mute, so that he could faux-confide, “The Gears are winning now, but they’ll lose in the finals.”

Hank aimed the remote control threateningly at Connor’s face, wagging it a bit, in lieu of a pointed finger. “If this were a bar, five guys woulda’ jumped you by now. You done?”

“I just wanted to let you know that according to my calculations _and_ his horoscope, Denton Carter will fail spectacularly in the next match.”

“Okay, I see how it is.” The older man pursed his mouth. “You’re getting back at me for being overprotective.”

In truth, Connor was enjoying how natural it felt to ease into this kind of banter with Hank. But his smile widened when the human reinforced a sentiment that the prototype knew, yet liked to hear repeated.

All too innocently, Connor countered, “I’m simply honoring what I’m entitled to on my birthday.” 

“At this point, I’m thinking we should see that 90’s Dinosaurs show that you love so much instead.”

Hank knew Connor hated that show. Even after analyzing crime scenes, the android had only first employed the term ‘creeped out’ within the first five minutes of seeing the baby character.

With the game still muted, it was more than apparent when a second device came alive in the living room. The Demigrant flute cover of Jurassic Park’s theme played over Hank’s stereo system, crackling slightly on specific notes. 

Sumo wandered in from the hallway, giving a short bark at the offensive noise coming from the speakers.

“Wow,” Hank drawled, linking arms behind his head. “If this is your way of pushing for your end of the bargain, I can tell ya’ that it’s looking like a lose-lose scenario.”

“I just meant to communicate a simple thing,” Connor said, best negotiator voice in effect. “The pain stops once the movie comes on.”

The RK800 could have overridden the entire network himself and started the movie, but this was a matter of making the other ‘ say uncle’ and he’d rather Hank concede and play along with his demands.

In a final move of feigned villainy, Connor mirrored Hank’s pose, but dared a step further, perching an extended leg atop Hank’s snacks and unopened sodas. “We wouldn’t want to shirk tradition... so what I say, goes.”

Hank didn’t know whether to laugh or swipe at Connor’s foot given the display of absurd confidence. However, another idea came to mind. With a sly smile, the lieutenant gathered himself and sat upright, facing the impish deviant.

“Well, damn, kid. You just reminded me of another birthday tradition.” The man exuded leisure, one leg in a sprawled cross over the other, with an elbow planted against the cushions. But Connor knew Hank.

The android barely made it past planting his feet on the carpet when he heard the telltale “Gotcha!” and felt familiar arms wrap around his middle. The mutilation of John Williams’ music ended with all due abruptness.

“Hank, let go,” Connor protested airily, expecting to be tickled. But the grip didn’t relocate in any way; he was simply dragged closer. 

“Ah, but you wanted the full nine yards of the birthday experience. It’s only what you _deserve_.”

In his confusion and half-compliance, Connor was easily manhandled into place over Hank’s awaiting lap. 

It was in the interim of two blinks and a cyclical color shift, with Connor all but buffering, that the eldest Anderson realized the poor ‘droid was not exactly in on the joke here. 

“Relax, son.” He patted the lower back, arms not at all restraining the younger man. “I’m kinda playing a prank here.” 

The human only partly succeeded in soothing the frazzled nerves under his hand. 

“Then what - I didn’t do anything wrong! You didn’t even exhibit signs of genuine anger over the park issue -” 

“Ah, boyo.” Great, talk about a failed approach. But he’d rather follow through... Otherwise, it’d be like addressing the monster under your kid’s bed and turning the lights off anyway, when the plan had been to duck underneath, only to emerge with an innocuous teddy bear.

“It’s mock punishment. Kinda like us shadowboxing versus me training with Gavin. One’s no big deal while the other’s all about trying not to commit murder.” He risked a demonstration and tapped lightly on the tense bottom, which had thus been withdrawing in an inverse arc to avoid contact. “See? No big deal.”

The brunette tentatively unclenched his body at the light treatment and turned his face to meet Hank’s soft gaze. Not upset, then, after all. 

“That’s it?” 

“Yup. Birthday swats. Supposed to be an embarrassing rite of passage that parents give their kids.” Hank absentmindedly patted along Connor’s lower back as he said this.

“They’re like ‘love pats.’” Connor was more acquainted with those, feeling mostly flustered by their condescending application, but sometimes even validated by the fact that they were another sign of parental affection. 

“Pretty much, except you go over my knee to linger for a bit while I count a swat for each year.”

“... But you already gave me the one.” 

“Hm, nice try. That was a demonstration. And there’s an extra swat, to ‘grow on’ too.” The tender spark in the blue eyes had transformed into a wolfish gleam.

Connor turned back to face the couch’s armrest, reaching out to grip it in a bid for leverage. “I concede. You can let go now. No more Jurassic Park.” With each sentence, Connor exacted a bit more force in extricating himself. 

Hank only tightened his own hold, but the android’s change in voice along with the half-hearted attempts at escape proved they were on charted, playful grounds again. _‘Thank Christ,’_ Hank thought.

“So, how about a drumroll sound effect for number one?”

While Connor could provide for all types of technological assistance, the RK800 refused to lend a hand in his own torture. Besides, he was still the slightest bit apprehensive. Still tugging on the armrest, Connor went for sulky politeness. “No, thank you.”

“Alright, alright. One!”

Connor closed his eyes preemptively, but as promised, the impact was little more than a nudge, landing in the middle of his grey sweats and eliciting a squeak of surprise.

Hank laughed at the reaction, sounding much too amused for Connor’s liking.

“That was pretty fucking cute, son. Like, cuter than a kitten’s-sneeze-cute.”

_‘Cute?!’_ All nervousness forgotten, the younger man was now simply annoyed. He pulled on the upholstery and pedaled his feet in another attempt for freedom. 

“Hank, you’ve had your fun. We can officially cross this tradition off the list and move on.”

“Excuse me,” Hank said, catching Connor’s right, slippered foot as it flailed too near his face. “You’ve still got your ‘one to grow on.’ Besides, I want my cranky kid to lighten up.” With one hand, Hank plucked the St. Bernard-themed footwear off and poked at the exposed appendage.

“Hank, c’mon, stop!” the brunette whined between suppressed bursts of laughter. “This whole thing - sucks!” The last word slipped out like a coveted swear word.

“Oh, yeah?” There was that amusement again. And Connor’s right foot was still under attack.

“Just get it over with,” Connor implored, giggling against his will.

“Literally asking for it, huh? I’ll oblige you.” Hank rubbed his hands dramatically. 

Connor saw his window of opportunity with the sudden lack of pressure around his waist and _almost_ made it off the couch. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d stepped onto the discarded slipper - which Sumo had been sniffing at that exact same moment… 

Multiple ridiculous things happened at once: Sumo had been prepared to make off with his plush look-alike, and Connor, sensing this, had deftly secured his foot back into one half of his gift. This merger of events resulted in the massive dog snatching Connor’s foot out from under him. And then, as if yanked to place by a cord of fate -- of the bungee variety -- the android toppled backwards into Hank, back to square one.

“Jesus, kid! What the fu-”

“Sumo, no! Leave it alone!”

The android tucked his legs in, away from the curious pet, though making it so he huddled closer to the lieutenant. Lying in a half-curled sprawl against Hank, partially over the human’s legs, Connor mentally winced at his clambering, yet managed a grin when the older man griped about pointy elbows.

Ever the experienced, wise one, Hank retrieved a toy from the cavernous depths of the couch cushions and threw it to distract Sumo. With a bark, the oversized fluffball waddled away, once more leaving the duo to their own devices.

“Just for that, I’m gonna add swats to grow on.” Despite the threat, all Hank did was draw the gangly ‘droid in, with the A.I. model leaning into the more comfortable arrangement. 

“I was just protecting the slippers _you_ gave me. Besides, if I keep growing, you’ll lose your height advantage, Hank. Then you won’t be able to lecture me properly,” Connor pointed out with a crooked smirk. 

“... Now I’m thinking I need to match this to your expected years of supposed self-preservation. Y’know as the good R9 intended. So… a little over 200 seems fair.”

“What?” Connor laughed, already sliding backwards. Sluggish within swaths of contentment, the RK800 didn’t quite move away in time before he was grabbed again. “Zero’s a better estimate for what I deserve.”

“Fine, we can haggle. How does 100 sound?”

Hank maneuvered the younger man this way and that as he spoke. And though Connor wasn’t pulling away anymore, he sought purchase around him in a way not unlike that of a cat resisting a tub of water.

“Connor!” Exasperated affection undermined the warning.

"I insist on zero.”

“25, as a tribute to your coin and for the age you actually look like.”

Hank had recaptured one of Connor’s wrists, twisting his torso marginally, when he gave a hiss of discomfort. Connor immediately stopped too, frowning in concern.

“Hank, is your back -?”

“Ha!” Large hands shot out to imprison the android, followed by a dramatic assist in swooping him down across Hank’s lap once more. “Thought you could get outta this, huh?” 

“I _would_ have escaped if you hadn’t feigned injury! I call uncle!” Connor called out his last option, more so to test out the idiomatic expression as he wasn’t so sure of its power.

Hank readied the squirming figure with a brisk smoothing of cloth, over imaginary wrinkles, all to exaggeratedly ‘prepare the target.’ 

“Uncle?” Hank chuckled drily. “Nope, not exactly the magic word there, kiddo.” 

“Um…” Connor ducked his head slightly at the perceived wind up of Hank’s arm, however jocular in delivery. But his mind drifted to ‘magic words,’ thinking on what trumped the title of uncle in this stratagem that Hank subverted. Then it hit him. “Dad!”

“Huh?” Hank gave pause, particularly at the note of pleased triumph in the young voice.

“I call Dad, then.” Connor turned to direct happy, puppy-dog eyes at him, but the expression flickered slightly at the human’s confused look. “Isn’t that what you meant? Someone more capable than an uncle, who’s better suited for rescue or comfort. So, I give in and call… you.”

_‘Fuck if he wasn’t wrong about that word being magical. Especially phrased like that, goddamnit.’_

The swat landed with a sigh, as if Hank were the one giving up, and with the release of humor’s weightlessness turning to maudlin gravitas - ironically quite jarring, which prompted a genuine blip of shock out of the android. 

“Cheap shot, you little shit. And you say _I’m_ the cheater.” The weathered features retained their guise of disgruntlement, and yet the handling of the overgrown 1-year-old was nothing but careful. 

Deposited on the neighboring cushion, Connor rested on his haunches to better sneak in a rub at the miniscule buzz of sensitivity. A superfluous gesture, really, but he had a point to make. “We’re not doing this again next year. If I can choose traditions, I’d rather have the piñata and the party. And if bored, you can choose a preference of piñata character to attack in my stead.” 

“One year old and already being a smart-ass. Can’t imagine what your terrible twos will be like.” 

“Excuse me…” Connor righted his hoodie, motions reminiscent of all the tie and lapel-adjusting he did at work, although even his professional air was redolent of home anyway. “... but I was a smart-ass long before this first year mark.”

Hank spat out a raucous laugh, not expecting that rejoinder. “Of fucking course! How could I forget?” Catching the deviant by the scruff of his hoodie, he pulled him in for a messy half-hug. “Go ahead and cue the movie, birthday boy.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to interrupt with something else, or -” A rougher than normal ruffle of hair made Connor chuckle as much as it spurred him to put his sarcasm on hold. “I get it, Hank, stop!”

The movie came on, chosen from a roster of favorites, and the lights dimmed accordingly. Though he’d been pulled in against Hank as a further extent of roughhousing, Connor now settled comfortably, shimmying downwards somewhat, with nothing short of punching Hank’s shoulder for optimal ‘pillow’ quality. 

“God, kid. Down in front,” the older man grumbled.

Connor only gave a half-committal hum.

Frankly, Hank couldn’t have been more grateful at the sight the two of them made (and featuring Sumo’s tail from behind the couch). For a moment he had been sure his little ‘birthday joke’ would be a bust, but he’d always been wanting to impress a specific concept onto Connor: that sometimes a serious thing could bear being lightened to strip certain fears away. 

And make no mistake, in the old cop’s eyes, there were consequences that _should_ be meaningful. 

But then there was Connor who had faced his only two punishments to date as one would a firing squad rather than the simple trips over his parent’s knee that they were. So, who could blame Hank for wanting to show Connor that, save for extreme situations, there really was little in this life that should be taken all that seriously.

In other words, add some of that palette’s blue to offset the stormy grey on canvas. Show that the sky’s not just a scale of black and white, or about to come crashing down.

_‘Damn their recent Bob Ross marathon.’_

“Hey, Con?”

“Mm?” The kid sounded like he was about to slip into his statis mode and they were barely 10 minutes in.

“After the movie, I was thinking we could still do the piñata thing with minor adjustments.”

“Mm.”

“We’ll take my old Soul Calibur VI game out and play as these fucked up characters. Not exactly the store-bought kind, but who can say no to destroying a cursed version of Kirby?”

“Cursed Kirby?” If Connor were human, anyone would see his head tilt and perceive it as a natural pose for daydreaming. Instead, the android returned to his place in reality with a face full of lament for what he unwillingly encountered in cyberspace. “That’s… awful.”

“Yeah. So you destroy it,” Hank stressed. “And to cap it all off, for every K.O., you get candy. So, just like a piñata.” 

“Right. Just like a piñata.” Connor dropped his head back onto Hank’s shoulder, flopping in a rare sprawl of deliberate laziness. Hank raised an eyebrow at the slumped figure, about to demand a real answer when the android spoke up again. “Okay, we can do that.” 

“That’s my boy.” Adding to the cozy unkemptness of the RK800, a hand ruffled brown locks into further disarray - gently, this time. 

Connor couldn’t help but preen at Hank’s words, a smile pressed silently into a familiar shoulder as he nestled closer like a cat.

“Thank you for today, Hank. I’ve found that I quite like my birthday.”

“Well, fuck, it’s the least you deserve.” The arm around Connor’s shoulders held him more securely. “And watch, next year will be just as good.”

As far as Hank was concerned, birthdays were utter bullshit. But for Connor? He’d wake up early, muster enough energy to goof around and after a movie-slash-gaming marathon, he’d even carry the brat to his bed and tuck him in without moaning about his lower back. 

He knew from now on, he’d gift this kid the means to be happy, however elusive he found those practices. But Hank was serious about Connor making it to 200… it’d be about fair, having a son to outlive him two lifetimes over.   
  


_**~Fin~** _

**Maplestory sprites + Paint.NET editing (other pixel art is gathered from royalty-free sources):**

  
  
  



	2. All Bark, No Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor doesn't know what to make of certain dog-training techniques. Hank helps Connor understand :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, wow, I got this out sooner than I expected (especially since the image-editing takes time too). Here's the next chapter! ^_^

Connor knew of the expression ‘spring cleaning’ and thought it a very straightforward recommendation as far as yearly guidelines and deadlines went. But of course there was knowing something theoretically… and then living the exact opposite experience under the guidance of someone who flagrantly spat in the face of convention. The whole thing made up for an interesting contrast, Connor decided as he continued to observe Hank rooting through copious cardboard boxes in the last week of August.

“So a ‘rehaul’ of the house isn’t limited to springtime? It can be for any time of the year?”

“Spring kinda makes sense due to garage sales; nice weather and all that. But other times, for those of us who don’t give a shit about clearing closet space, it’s mostly about getting the hint when a bunch of boxes fall on your head after pulling a sweater outta the pile the wrong way.”

Intrigued, Connor straightened out of his crouch by Hank to reexamine their surroundings. His reconstruction program took the scattered boxes, Hank’s position and the open closet doors into account. Reduced to a virtual plane of diagrams and likely calculations, a 6’3” figure hypothetically lumbered backwards in retraced steps, the mapped scenario showing a sedate process. Not once were there signs [∆ **_Scanning…_** **_Blunted edges of boxes? Scuff marks on the rug? Debris in the form of torn cardboard or detached objects?_** ] of the figure having to shield their face from an avalanche of memorabilia.

“Connor? You’re doing your Matrix render thing, aren’tcha?” Hank smirked when Connor’s look of concentration fell to a pout at his words. “Did it show you where this part of my trophy went?”

Connor eagerly scanned the trophy Hank held aloft for demonstration. [ **_Bowling League Champions, 2017, Hank “The Dude” Anderson… loose M0.8 micro-screws in upper right quadrant_** ] Indeed, something appeared missing. And given the allocated space and general theme, Connor was sure it was a miniaturized bowling ball. As shown in his earlier scans, nothing had fallen onto the floor, which left…

The android stepped past Hank, who remained seated on an old stool, and zeroed in on the upper shelf of the inbuilt closet. There, surely.

He stood on tip-toes, hands reaching for far, recently-emptied corners. Dust bunnies trailed after his sweeping hands and forearms, alighting a light itch along his synthetic skin. But he persevered until he came upon a forgotten clutter of small boxes. As soon as his fingers grazed a small rounded object, he hummed with anticipation, more decisively pushing things out of the way to claim his prize.

Trophy piece in hand, Connor looked over his shoulder to give the good news. “Found it!”

A scrape of movement alerted the RK800 to a dislodging that occurred. He was prepared for the toppling of cardboard, perhaps a cascade of musty blankets – but given his luck with household incidents, it shouldn’t have been too surprising when a basketball descended from the shadows instead.

With no time to react, Connor barely managed raised eyebrows before the sports item connected solidly with his face.

A ping-like bounce resonated throughout the room, followed by more consecutive, though duller thuds as the ball traveled across the carpeted floor.

The android clutched a hand to the area between his forehead and nose, squeezing his eyes against the odd bluntness that sent pinpricks of pressure across his face. It felt so different from the damage sustained by the punches or jabs he’d receive in his line of work.

“Connor, you alright, kid?”

Having been more startled than hurt, it only took a few blinks to regain focus. By that time, warm hands were already on his shoulders and Hank’s face hovered close to his. Worry seemed to be warring with bemusement.

“I remember taking a ball to the face like that before. Kinda knocks your brain around.” Driven by instinct more than anything, calloused fingers grabbed Connor’s chin, tilting the android’s head up slightly for inspection. “At least your nose seems to be fine.”

Though still squinting slightly, Connor made an effort to appear unaffected. “It’s nothing, really. I was caught off-guard.” He cleared his throat needlessly, hoping that Hank would find it in his heart to spare him any humiliating play-by-play. “You can let go of my chin, Hank.”

“Actually,” the older man said appraisingly, already removing a wetted rag from over his shoulder, “you’ve got all this dust and crap all over…”

Eyes definitely wide now, Connor averted his face to no avail. Feeling like a trapped kitten, he endured the impromptu grooming with as much maturity as the situation required. “ _Haaank_.”

Any additional words were muffled under the towel as it made a pass from his forehead to a spot by his chin. The cool softness would’ve been more tolerable had it not been testing his skin’s elasticity through smooshed cheeks or scrubbed jawlines. But Connor reached the end of his patience when a corner of the towel was applied a little more diligently at the space between his eyebrows, which grew more furrowed by the second.

“ _Hank_! Quit it!” Finally breaking away, Connor put a fair amount of distance between himself and Hank, gracefully avoiding the boxes at his feet to compensate for his earlier clumsiness.

“Well, Jesus, it’s not my fault the goddamn ball brought down a decade’s worth of dust on you. You’ve even got some in your hair.”

Connor took a precautionary step further away from the man lest he start cleaning his hair too.

“And you used that rag —” the android couldn’t refrain from accusing.

“I hadn’t even used it yet, so it was clean! Calm down, your lordship,” Hank huffed. “Or maybe you want me to draw you a bath later, full works and bubbles, since the rag doesn’t quite meet your standards?”

“… Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”

Nearly a year of having known each other later and Hank still couldn’t be sure sometimes as to whether Connor was purposefully playing dumb or not regarding Hank’s sarcasm. But no, there the android was, trying not to look so shyly content with Hank’s offer. _‘Fuck it,’_ Hank thought fondly. The kid thought he was giving in with a nice gesture, so the old cop supposed he was, after all.

“Oh, and here’s this.” Connor bent to retrieve the little sphere that started the mess in the first place. He dropped it into Hank’s palm.

“Wouldja look at that? Sucker’s bronze. Not as much of a cheap-ass trophy as I thought.” Hank used the damp cloth already in hand to polish the recovered object.

“It wouldn’t be too hard to fix, either. I noticed that the screws — what is Sumo doing?”

Both turned to see Sumo rummaging through one of the old boxes, emerging with an aged newspaper that listed between drooling jowls.

“Hey! Goddamnit, Sumo…!” Hank only side-stepped some of the strewn boxes while he kicked others right out of the way, chasing after the St. Bernard.

Connor dawdled behind, giving in to the curiosity that the lieutenant sometimes branded as ‘cat-like.’ With no Hank there to be oddly secretive about early adulthood mementos, the android lost all restraint and nudged a bulkier box open. He smiled at the contents. Foregoing the more mechanical side to his questing, he examined Sci-Fi books, CDs and a **_Sony Discman_ **by turning them in his hands, almost out of respect for their old-fashioned owner who proved quite tactile.

The domestic puzzle-piecing of ‘artefacts’ was interrupted by a loud _whap_ sound and a curt command of “Sumo, no!”

Worried for his beloved canine friend, Connor dropped the music player back into the box and hurried to join the rest of his makeshift family.

As soon as he cleared the hallway, the brunette spied Sumo lying down by the main couch, furry head on paws with the breed-patented sad gaze aimed upward at Hank. The older man was shaking a slightly slobbered, rolled up newspaper at the dog while complaining under his breath.

“What did you do to him?” Connor didn’t bother hiding his indignation on Sumo’s behalf, LED cycling in yellow flashes. He stepped close enough to pet his favorite animal should he need comforting.

“Me? That’s rich. Why don’t you rip into St. Drool-Meister over here? Ask how easy it would be to replace newspaper articles from 30 fucking years ago!” But Hank sounded more sarcastic than genuinely angry, which must’ve meant that no real harm came to his old printings.

Connor scanned the item in Hank’s hold for confirmation: the text and imagery were more faded by the passing of time than any recent dog saliva.

“Your newspaper is fine, Hank. Focus on Sumo, and how to avoid upsetting him,” Connor declared, emphatically pointing a finger behind him, towards the presumed position of the downtrodden pet, all the while not breaking eye contact. 

Hank gave Connor a long look. “I’d say your defendant’s just fine too, Ace Attorney.”

“Hm?”

Over his shoulder, Connor could see Sumo lying languidly on his side, not at all mindful of the obstruction he posed to any future occupants of the couch. As if for both men’s viewing pleasure, the St. Bernard yawned widely before collapsing his head back onto the carpet, escaped tongue caught between a loll and a ‘blep.’

“Poor Sumo.” Connor swiftly joined the dog on the floor, hugging the massive furball with utmost appreciation.

“ _Poor Sumo_?” Hank exclaimed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s obviously tired as a result of your outburst.”

“ _My_ — I barely did anything.”

Connor half-turned, arm still loyally around the dozing canine. “But I heard that loud noise, which must’ve scared him.” He paused, casting a critical eye over the frustrated man. “And Hank, if your newspaper’s that rare and delicate, you should stop squeezing it like that if you want to avoid damage…”

“I do just fine with Sumo, Connor. He’s housebroken for a reason. And all I did was this.” Here, the older cop smacked the newspaper on the palm of his hand, though nowhere near as sharply as before. Despite the tone-downed demonstration, the android grew more rigid in posture.

“You did that to Sumo? Hit him with the newspaper?” Connor sounded more confused than anything, not able to consolidate his idea of Hank with the thought of such acts against Sumo.

“Ugh, kid, no! It’s just the noise, alright?” The grizzly man could see the tension drain out of Connor at that. However, Hank decided on a little retribution given the ridiculous amount of guilt the android had been trying to heave onto him. “Though it’s not unheard of to give a little bop here and there when it comes to training.”

“A bop?” That sounded innocent enough to the RK800.

“Yeah, you take up the instrument of torture, like so…” Hank brandished the newspaper in a lazy arc, simulating the most piss-poor introduction to fencing possible. “Then you go nuts. And a hefty thing like this?” Hank twisted the crinkly mess of papers this way and that with purposeful inspection. “Forget about it.”

“Hank, don’t joke about stuff like that.”

“What’s that? You said _stuff._ ” Hank’s stony façade dropped for a second. “Give me a sec…” He ambled over to the refrigerator, where he added a tally to a sheet held in place by a fish-themed magnet. In Hank’s scrawl, the paper was titled **_Connor’s ABC’s → Next trip to Aquarium._ **The activity of sorts had been employed as a reverse swear jar scenario.

“Keep ‘em coming, kid. You’re 13 tallies away from your next visit.”

“You’re making light of this.”

“C’mon, I can take a second for positive reinforcement. It’s the biggest craze in all the parenting books.” The human smirked at the pleased blush the association no doubt invoked, knowing embarrassed deflection loomed, regardless. “You saying ‘ _stuff_ ’ is nothing to sneeze at, kid. Any day now you’ll be saying ‘ _higgledy-piggledy_ ’ like all the cool kids.”

Connor’s attention strayed to Sumo as he fought to restore an even skin tone to dampen the blue tinge. Well-calibrated digits scratched beneath the fur, aiming to relax the already reposeful creature. 

“Thank you for valuing my use of colloquialisms, Hank. But I’d rather you not joke about ‘bopping’ Sumo.”

“Fuckin’— I’ll show you what I actually meant, alright?” Hank trudged back. He had scarcely reached the inner circle of the living room before Connor rose to intercept him. The movement fully awoke Sumo, who barked at both men in a show of encouragement for perceived playfulness. “Kid, jeez.”

“No, even if it’s a flick on the nose like I’ve seen at the park, don’t do it.”

“Let me show you. It’s like a —” The lieutenant made a vague prodding gesture with his supposed weapon. “It’s an honest-to-fucking-God poke to the nose. Sumo would probably even think we’re playing if I did that, so stop freaking out about it. Not like I’d ever want to bother him anyway.”

Connor seemed to regard Hank soberly for a few seconds. “What if he chewed on your most expensive shoes?”

“What, my prized, piece-of-shit shoes back from when Kohl’s was a thing? C’mon, kid. And Sumo’s not a puppy anymore.”

“Your vinyl records, then. What if I left them lying around? He could slobber all over them,” Connor pressed.

Blue eyes narrowed. “That sounds like it’d be _your_ problem by then.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking the fall for Sumo,” Connor said, appearing halfway serious. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. And hey, just trust me when I say that I’m not waving stuff in Sumo’s face all the goddamn time for kicks.” It was almost like the brunette was pushing boundaries – but for Sumo’s sake! And this after Connor had gone through the teenage spiel himself… which had consequently led to the android’s second real punishment. Nah, Hank wasn’t doing this for another round, especially not over this godawful twist to falling on a grenade. “And I don’t appreciate you ramping up the martyr card either.”

Connor took to that critique as if being handed an alternative solution. “I’ll take responsibility, then. I could help train Sumo.”

“Oh, for… Connor. He’s fine. So sometimes he digs through my old things and wants to put them in the backyard. Fine! But Sumo’s not a victim here!”

“I just mean that if he accidentally damages keepsakes, you shouldn’t have to scare him, or —”

“Ok, let’s do this once and for all. I’ll show you how dumb this whole thing is.”

Hank got closer, posed to gently tap the newspaper on the large, wet nose. Before he could advance that far, a certain Cyberlife model of upright citizenry got in his way yet again.

“No, it’s fine, Hank. Don’t bother.”

Nearing a point beyond mildly irritated, Hank thought up a proposal to turn this situation on its head while giving Connor exactly what he was asking for in his own stubborn way. “Alright. Want me to demonstrate on you instead?”

“I, um…”

“Take the deal, kid. You get to save Sumo _and_ see for yourself that I’m not a monster from the depths of hell.” Hank’s voice juggled exasperation and humor in admirable balance.

“… Very well.”

Connor’s LED was as yellow as it had been from the onset of this affair, but it spun slightly faster now. The RK800, who hardly flinched in the name of danger while at work, notably braced himself with a scrunch of the face, one eye shut with the other peering nervously at Hank. It made for a hilarious contrast to the confident wink Connor had sported on their first case.

“Why the face?” Hank felt himself compelled to ask, laughter bubbling close to the surface.

Countenance still pinched, Connor promptly answered, “You mentioned the nose.” 

Right. Hank wasn’t going to do that, especially given the chance that pain lingered from the basketball encounter. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I had something else in mind.”

Both brown eyes opened inquisitively at that, though before the younger man could push for clarification, Hank was already at his side.

Not as spooked as before and still expecting a prod in the general vicinity of his upper body (memory logs accessed park observations: owners tugging along their pets’ collar, or tapping the tops of heads or shoulders for gentle reminders), Connor was unprepared for Hank’s version of events.

A stabilizing hand at Connor’s elbow should’ve been its own warning, but alas, realization set in too late… predominantly by way of the imprint of late 90’s headlines across Connor’s seat.

The _whap_ was somehow more raucous this time around, though distantly the android could acknowledge that was probably due to the fact that he was at the epicenter of impact and not 4 meters down the hallway. Even then, the sound rung absurdly loud to Connor… and paired with the incongruously muted thump of connection between his backside and wadded paper, that barely registered as bothersome, he stood rooted in aimless shock.

LED wavered on red ephemerally until a neutral yellow indicated the helpful reality check that no, Connor’s ass was not broken in half. Not at all, in fact.

He should be relieved at how anticlimactic the ordeal was, but it had been _a thunder clap of noise_ … all for nothing! And Hank had surprised him!

[∆ **_Scanning… NO ACHE… 135 dBA of sound upon moment of contact, Stress Levels 22% ˅, Hank’s state: calm_** ]

Exiting a bizarre series of inner processes, Connor’s eyes fluttered in direct opposition to his unblinking stance of moments prior. How nice that his father-figure was calm, but he felt a tad blind-sided.

Mind back in the present, he noted that Sumo was giving a series of short barks at Hank, going so far as following the man as he traveled to a bookcase to deposit the newspaper on one of the higher shelves. Despite the low-pitched woofs, the older cop hardly found them offensive given his gruff chortles at the dog’s expense.

“— you crazy mutt. Your protectiveness of each other is _duly noted_.” Here, Hank bent at the waist to directly address Sumo in dulcet tones. “But I won’t be pushed around in my own house.”

Another bark sounded in recrimination. Glad for the moral support, Connor turned towards Hank, reclaiming the older man’s attention with his stiff posture and a scowl that wobbled at corners, clearly losing grounds to a full-blown pout.

“That wasn’t a _bop_ , Hank. And you — I would’ve preferred my nose as the intended target if I’d known your plans.”

“Come off it, kiddo.” Running a hand through his grey hair, Hank looked a touch rueful but proceeded with his relaxed approach. “It didn’t hurt, did it?”

“Well, no.”

“That’s kinda the point there, son. No harm, no foul.”

“But —”

“The sound was exaggerated? Not what you expected? Left you a little stunned but none worse for wear?” With each question, Hank lumbered closer with easy strides until he was practically toe to toe with the android, doting eyes juxtaposed with crow’s feet.

“… I still would’ve preferred the nose,” Connor insisted through a mimic-based sigh, angling his face away in chagrin. Hank softened even more at the partially hidden evidence of blue flourishing across freckled features.

“Sure, why not?” Hank complied readily, tossing his index finger out to treat Connor’s olfactory cyber-organ like a doorbell. “Boop.”

Expression once more crinkled by petulance, Connor spoke with measured patience. “That would have been welcome before. Not now.” 

“Ah, but where would the fun in that be?” Not giving his adoptive son a fair chance at escalating outrage, Hank used a hand on Connor’s nape to pull the kid against his shoulder. The hug was overly-jovial, meant to squash and hamper as a way to lighten the mood… a strategy used sparingly to ease everyday tension when it came to his android charge.

But Connor went on muttering complaints into Hank’s shirt, not the least bit participative in an exchange he’d usually welcome. “… ‘m just trying to protect Sumo and all you do is tease me about my concerns…”

“Okay, enough already,” Hank scolded with no bite. “Unless you wanna take the fall for Sumo every time. Say, he eats out of the garbage can? Chases a cat up a tree? Takes a dump on the carpet? I’ll have to assume that’s all you and hold _you_ accountable.”

“That’s ridiculous.” The words were bottled effervescence, with pride a cap to signs of a lifting mood.

“Or,” the sardonic voice drawled, “you can trust that Sumo’s in good hands and that he’s not about to wreck the house to provoke me, hm?” At this point, arms held Connor at a distance for better questioning, hands planted on shoulders in a gentle grip.

Somewhat abashed, Connor conceded with a self-conscious quirk of lips. “Yes, the latter sounds more reasonable. Sorry for doubting you, Hank.”

“Meh, I know you get overprotective of Sumo. Not like I couldn’t guess as much when you threatened the vet that one time.”

“Not my finest moment.” The android ducked his head slightly at the memory.

“I thought it was fucking hilarious. Couldn’t have been prouder!”

“Hank…” Not quite rolling his eyes, Connor’s gaze flitted upwards and lingered as he gathered errant thoughts. His LED spun through amber dials of contemplation.

[ _Hank affecting bluster in warning, with Sumo pooled at his feet not 2 minutes later._

_Using a similar, though more poignant kind of bluff in response to Connor and his wanton accusations._

_Then the affirmation of pride for Connor’s brashness given caring circumstances._ ]

The RK800 pitched forward in his own dampened counterattack against Hank, butting his head on the Hot Topic-attired chest, right into a green dog caricature. He had at least come to one definitive conclusion. 

“You’re so weird.”

Arms enfolded him anew. “I take that as a compliment, thanks,” a droll voice established. “Mind elaborating?

The brunette head, still pressed to a heartbeat, rolled to the side to accommodate clearer speech. “You can be unexpectedly… chill.”

“You’re just going for that tally, huh, you opportunistic brat,” Hank said, nearly with delight.

“No. It’s the most apt word, I assure you,” Connor flatly stated.

“Ah, well, if you must know…” A broad hand kneaded at the android’s perfectly lined shoulders, inducing a further slump into the warm embrace. “I’m only _chill_ like that because I’m uptight enough of the time, and it gets to be real fucking tiring.”

Feeling himself sinking into a transition between relaxation and rest mode, Connor mumbled, “Yes, it really is.”

“There you go. Sometimes a little stomping, a little noise, is fine — but it doesn’t amount to much and you’re just kinda clearing the path.”

“Sort of a reverse to Theodore Roosevelt’s policy on ‘speaking softly, but carrying a big stick,’” Connor managed to elocute despite his rapidly-relaxing senses under Hank’s affectionate ministrations, which now covered his scalp and nape.

“Sure, where consideration’s due. With some you yell... no weapon. With others, you yell and the big stick’s a dual-weighted championship bat. _So_ , my point is, you should always yell.” A stifled giggle reverberated against Hank’s sternum, eliciting an answering grin. “And also, fuck Theodore Roosevelt.”

Finding solace in the older man’s faux-lecture, in the mounting evidence of levity, the android gathered handfuls of T-shirt. Tugging lightly, Connor went ahead and said, “I’m very glad that you can be unexpectedly chill, Hank.”

“Nice try, kid. Still counts as one tally.” Despite his teasing, the seasoned cop swayed slightly, rocking his charge with utmost fondness.

“... And we really do have enough bubble bath solution, right?”

“Heh, yeah,” Hank said, indulgence not at all masked. “Anything to help you relax, son.”

_**Maplestory sprites + Paint.NET editing (other pixel art is gathered from royalty-free sources):** _

* * *

_Epilogue:_

“Hey, you okay in there?” Hank knocked on the bathroom door, half-serious with his query. “No sudsy floor that could lead to me cracking my head on the toilet?”

“It was the one time, Hank,” came Connor’s defense, heard through the prefabricated wood. “I don’t know if you actually wanted to check in, or —”

Partially opening the door, Hank did nothing more than tip his head with a perfunctory nod. True to his word, Connor had kept all signs of bubbles and water _within_ the bathtub. No overflow this time around, then. “Not really.” Stepping all the way in, he made it a point to keep something behind his back. “I got something for ya’.”

The android perked up, brown eyes taking on a sparkle of curiosity that seemed unique to Connor (Hank would swear it was on the spectrum between ‘bright-eyed kid’ and ‘comatose prodigy who’d woken up having skipped over childhood’).

“What is it?” Cyber optics darted from Hank’s self-satisfied expression to the vicinity around the human’s waist, where arms disappeared to in secrecy.

Nearing the tub, Hank openly grinned at the RK800 who looked utterly content within a wreath of foamy bubbles. “Well, while you were here splashing around —”

Connor gave a self-conscious jolt, a flush starkly defined beyond a warmth-induced dusting of blue. _‘How about that?’_ Hank didn’t think he’d hit the nail on that one, but he’d rather leave Connor in suspense as to any mystical all-seeing Dad powers to keep the kid on his toes.

Except now the usually-grouchy man was imagining how adorable it’d be if Connor pulled a Dumbo and spun underwater at knee-deep bath levels. _‘God, I’m losing my edge.’_

“— I, ahem, found this cool thing from my college days. Check it out.” Skipping over any cheesy ‘ta-da’s,’ Hank simply whipped out a neon green hoodie for the android to see.

“Oh! Gir, right?” Doing his old man proud, Connor’s sparkle upgraded to a twinkle at the recognition. Resting his chin on propped arms alongside the bathtub’s rim, the android soon pinned laser-like focus onto the felt antennae of the hood.

“Yep. Thought I’d dust it off a bit.”

“I don’t think it fits you anymore, Hank,” Connor pointed out without hesitation.

“Yeah, the ‘M’ tag kinda gave it away, smart-ass.” The man shook the sweater out with renewed flair. “I meant for you.”

“Me?” The young humanoid drew to attention, sending bubbles this way and that. “You’re giving it to me, like a gift?”

Hank lowered the hoodie, a joke about hand-me-downs on the tip of his tongue, but he wasn’t prepared for Connor’s reaction: if there had been a twinkle before, it was an outright glow now. Tone and words gentled accordingly.

“It suits you, son. C’mon, a funky, little robot wanting to be a dog? It’d be a fucking travesty if you _didn’t_ have this.”

“If you put it that way… Thank you, Hank.” A timid smile stole age away from the adult simulation in front of the older man, reminding him all the more of the unlikely summons his paternal instincts had responded to.

Hank shrugged, happy that Connor was happy. “So, we got the ‘show and tell’ part over with. I still gotta use a whole-ass laundry cycle as an excuse to make this thing decent.”

“There’s no need.”

“Like hell I’m gonna give it to you like this. Besides, once it’s out of the dryer, you’ll get that cozy experience that you like.”

Connor was incapable of saying no to that. He indeed remembered loving that technique over wintertime, having improvised once by putting socks in the microwave, much to Hank’s amusement.

“Sound good to you?”

The android nodded more than twice in close succession.

Sensing he may as well leave the kid to his self-care regime, Hank threw the neon apparel over one shoulder and levied a thumb at the door. “I know I barged in here, but I wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting into. Oh, and I might as well remind you —” the lieutenant’s words turned subtly sing-songy. “Wash behind your ears.”

“Why...?”

“Never mind. But in all seriousness, get all the shampoo out. I swear you had dandruff after last time.”

Hank had expected some techno pontificating on the wonders of hair retraction to avoid this sort of problem, but Connor only provided a vague, though definitive answer. “I know how to efficiently wash my own hair.”

Hank couldn’t leave it at that.

“Oh yeah?”

Despite expecting the ruffle-propending hand to target his coiffure, slick soapiness and all, Connor had next to no literal wiggle room for escape. In a last-ditch effort for distance, the miffed brunette sunk in morose withdrawal, nose skimming the bubbly surface. 

“There; thoroughly shampooed the fuck up. I’m sure rinsing will come as a welcome challenge.” 

Puppy eyes had never looked so baleful as they peered at Hank under a dripping, messy fringe.

“Okay, I get the hint. I’ll let you soak and leave the hoodie on your bed once it’s toasty dry,” Hank said over his shoulder as he finally walked away from the tub. At this, Connor deemed it safe to emerge again. 

Right before closing the door on his way out, the human shared a last directive. “And don’t stay in there too long. Otherwise I may feel inspired to get you an Aquaman onesie to complete your Hot Topic initiation.”

Connor knew he should leave it alone and not sound so invested, but a data search had already sprung up on his HUD to confirm such wardrobe enhancements. “... How come you didn’t tell me about this sooner, Hank?”

Hand still around the door jam, Hank found it easy to laugh at the android’s sudden state of liveliness - particularly given the ridiculous swirl of hair framing the determined features - all in the name of fun pajamas. 

“Y’know what? This weekend we’ll hit the stores. And then we’ll pull a Millennial stint by going to a midnight movie in pajamas. You go ahead and do a onesie premiere. I’ll do the old man thing and wear robes with crocs.”

“Deal!” 

And there was the happy look again. Hank would guiltily admit to enjoying Connor’s childish glowering at times, but nothing beat the earnestness that heralded a growing ease with smiles.

Closing the door, Hank lingered until…

Small splashes echoed faintly within the small bathroom. The soft sounds were enough to stir up a wave of tenderness in the rugged Detroiter.

He wouldn’t mind rummaging through the rest of his house if it meant finding the kindling necessary to spark these moments.

_~Fin~_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular design of the GIR jacket was actually custom made by "pandorasclock" (I first saw the image on Pinterest, credited with this artist, but I couldn't find the original site, so I'll at least leave the name here)


	3. Snooze Button

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor's developing late-night habits, and on this particular night, he makes a small mess. Hank's confusion outweighs any frustration, but once he learns about the reasoning behind Connor's actions, the man's more sure than ever: he won the son-sent-by-Cyberlife lotto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, whoops - this took too long and now this chapter became an overly-long monstrosity, lol. That's what happens when RL keeps interrupting and my mind wanders with all sorts of tangents.
> 
> Nevertheless, here it is! I had fun with details in world-building, so if anything sounds weird or improbable, it's me not caring about Logic ^_^

_‘It was going to be one of those nights,’_ Hank realized with a mental groan, snapped out of prone laziness rather than any actual stupor by indistinct sounds in the house.

He was getting better at the whole sleeping thing: turning in before midnight, resting quality not as hampered by nightmares or reflux, and even waking up somewhat early. Ironically, it just so happened that while the old Detroiter was relearning healthier habits, his android adoptee was discovering fun ways to neglect his own protocols, for better or worse.

A mild, brusque bark accompanied by a conspiratorial shushing sound solidified Hank’s suspicions. The lame cover-up made the lieutenant grin, at least. Either Connor was too tired to be stealthy or he was too far-gone in his late night escapade to bother with any subtlety. These nuanced signs of deviance would be adorable if they weren’t interrupting Hank’s honest need for a nice weekend of lasting sleep. 

Sitting up with a huff, he scratched at his chest before levering himself up the rest of the way, hoping against hope that he’d be able to nip tonight’s venture in the bud. He knew Connor, in all his humanoid ways, could also suffer from stasis deprivation and it led to more than slower calibration and trudging LED cycles.

Once in the hallway, Hank spotted a familiar fluorescent glow and followed it until the open kitchen door came into view. Sumo expectantly sat at attention by his bowl, giving Hank a casual glance as if glad the human was on time to attend the ‘meeting.’

“Okay, Sumo,” continued the stage-whispering over the jostle of jars and tupperware. “Ham seems like a good choice for you, and not as loud as serving kibble.”

Once Connor stood to presumably scan the array of foods, with one hand bracing the fridge door and the other drumming along the freezer handle, Hank thought it perfect timing to harrumph loudly.

“I think you’re past the loud food part, kiddo.” 

The RK800 turned wide eyes Hank’s way and froze in place, LED a pulsing yellow of surprise. 

“You gonna say something or what? It’s not like if you stay still like that, I’m gonna forget you’re there. I’m not sleepwalking and I’m sure as shit you aren’t either.”

“... I’m sorry, Hank.” Connor moved aside while keeping the fridge slightly ajar, revealing lamb-themed pajamas. Curmudgeon or not, Hank’s stiff upper lip was threatening to melt into a fond smirk at the sight. “I wanted some Thirium.” 

“And you figured Sumo might as well eat too?” Hank leaned against the kitchen’s entryway, crossed arms more leisurely than stern.

“Yes.” Connor shifted on his feet for a second. “Also to keep him quiet.”

“Ah, of course. The classic steak-for-the-junkyard-dog trick.” Hank yawned, almost missing the subtle smile Connor gave at the reminder of 80’s cop show cliches. They were both fans, of course. “Well, sorry to impose on your ‘break in,’ Connor, but it’s time for all little androids to be in bed.”

In the sliver of lighting left, the freckled features visibly scrunched with annoyance. But Hank couldn’t take him seriously, especially not with the fuzzy hoodie pooled around his shoulders. It was all too easy to dismiss the retort inevitably forming and order the kid around.

“So how about you get your Thirium, skedaddle, and _I’ll_ give Sumo the ham. You just get yourself under the covers.”

Flustered at the patronizing tone, but knowing he was getting off easy, Connor dove a hand back into the cooled compartment before he closed the fridge entirely. Blue pouch in hand, he pet Sumo before skirting around Hank. 

“Sorry again, Hank… and good night!” The android paused at his bedroom entrance, turning toward his guardian upon saying the last few words. Hank was pleased to see the bright blue LED circling in the near-darkness of the hallway.

“Yeah, you too, son. Pleasant dreams and all that jazz.”

Appeased by the nightly benediction, Connor fully retreated with a click. 

Hank looked down at Sumo, who was already gazing up expectedly. A happy tail thump followed for good measure. 

“And you? Sure you don’t want this on a silver platter?” It only took a familiar rummage later to sort the treat out to the Saint Bernard. 

Sleepier with the mere thought of collapsing back onto his King bed, Hank yawned once more, pleased to hear Sumo scarfing food down behind him. The whole house seemed to be in a haze of peacefulness. Thus, five minutes later, Hank drifted off with the naive hope that some good REM — or electric sheep — awaited them all. Too much to hope for?

Apparently, _yes_ , goddamnit… for in an hour’s time, Hank’s eyes popped open, confronted with the neon reading of 1:48 a.m. and other peculiar sounds.

Not as patient as before, Hank tossed his covers off before lumbering forward. Connor’s guilty face greeted him around the corner. Hank could tell the android had just been in the vicinity of the bathroom, which confused him further.

“What the hell are you up to now?”

“I just needed to quickly use the bathroom.”

“Connor.” Hank had had his sleep ruined and he didn’t want to deal with this right now. “You have zero fucking _needs_ in the bathroom.”

“Alright. I _felt like_ washing my face. Is that better?”

To Connor’s credit, while dimness robbed him of any visual cues, he interpreted the deathly silence quite well.

“That is﹘I couldn’t quite go into stasis, so I thought I could bide my time… doing something useful.”

“In the bathroom?” Dry incredulity spared Hank the need to raise his voice.

“Yes.” Connor hesitated before continuing, “I was looking for something.”

“Right, of course. Goddamn scavenger hunt at two in the morning.” Words more or less filtered through the splayed hands over Hank’s face, palms rubbing at a weariness that only seemed to sink further the more he listened to this bullshit.

“I gave up looking… so I added a few more sticky notes to the mirror for you,” Connor said, levity a little too saccharine. “You’re welcome.”

“Connor?”

“I’m going back to bed.” The android excused himself quickly. Yet, not quickly enough, as a corralling grip snagged the fleece-fitted wrist as it went by.

“Hey, hey, not so fast,” Hank cut in, setting off a yellow LED reaction. “Now, if you’re having trouble resting, I totally get the wandering. And I appreciate that you haven’t climbed out the window to do it.”

“Well, I promised I wouldn’t anymore.”

“Yeah. So, while I’m glad your ass isn’t downtown at this hour, I’m telling you, kid: you need sleep.”

“I know,” Connor said with signs of remorse.

“We can’t have you collapsing again.”

“That only happened once.” The quieter words were laced with a whine.

Suddenly considering factors for sleeplessness, Hank went on to say, “And son, if you’re not feeling too good, you know you can always come into my room.”

“I﹘it’s not that at all.” In the inklings of moonlight, Connor could be seen twisting away at that. His pale complexion darkened a little too. “I’m okay.”

“Just sayin’.” 

“No, I should be fine until morning,” Connor said. “But thank you, Hank.” 

Hank softened at the kid’s unfailing gratitude. “Hm. I get it, the whole not-sleeping thing.” He reached out blindly, fingertips grazing a chin before touch settled along a youthful face, patting twice. A tilt of subtle movement followed the contact, so the palm remained.

“And seriously, stay the hell in your room.”

Connor pulled away good-naturedly, scoffing out a laugh. 

“I mean it,” Hank pushed for sternness, half-garbled by a yawn.

The android only stopped to pet Sumo in the dog’s nested corner of the hallway before he made it to his sticker-speckled door. “Good night, Hank.” 

“Better be,” the older man grumbled, though he spared the necessary blitheness to then utter, “Sleep tight, kiddo.”

* * *

The dream had been a good one.

A distant college memory of Hawaii had set the background — maybe it had been the billboard of a Hawaii getaway that triggered the whole thing while driving from work? — with its tantalizing waves and its ridiculous procession of hotel buffet carts.

Alfred Pennyworth (Michael Kaine version, of course) had appeared as maître d', suave blazer paired with swimming shorts, saying, “Mr. Anderson, might I suggest the lobster thermidor? It’s Master Wayne’s favorite.”

Hank was about to accept, poised to cause a commotion while still smiling sweetly at the butler. He knew exactly who the hell Master Wayne was, and he was about to tell the whole fucking island… when a crash sounded. 

Bright images of tropical beaches collapsed, replaced by a Vignette-filtered bedroom reality. He sat up in a rush, instincts buzzing, already reaching for a carefully stowed firearm﹘all before fully conscious. And then he heard Sumo barking playfully. That’s when the sleepy fog turned into exhaust steam.

A door swung open, and lights flooded the narrow length between bedrooms to reveal a pair of re-offending accomplices: Connor kneeling by a half-hinged table drawer and Sumo, happily sniffing at strewn items. Even a vase seemed to have broken, now reduced to shards, pooling water and a sad, slumped flower.

“Hank, I’m sorry! I only —”

“Oh no, don’t even start. This is the third time tonight, Connor! Daylight’s coming in, I was having a _good fucking dream_ , and you scare the living shit outta me over, what? Looking for Christ-knows-what? Another fucking _midnight snack?_ More goddamn _bathroom arts-and-crafts_?”

“Hank.” The name was a wounded protest, Connor looking unprepared for this amount of yelling and sharp scolding. For the first time that night, the android’s right temple shone in red.

“Nope, save it. You can come up with excuses later, but I want you in bed _right now._ Do not pass Go, do not collect $200 —”

Kicked puppy look and all, Connor slowly stood, but began walking in the opposite direction.

“Connor!”

“I’m getting paper towels to clean —”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Hank advanced menacingly.

Connor wisely stopped, posture hunched as tension traveled to fiddling hands. “I have to clean the mess I made.”

“You’re a bit late for that.” And without much consideration for his lumbar region, the man let remnants of adrenaline and high emotions do their thing… which led to a gobsmacked Connor being tossed over Hank’s shoulder like a duffel bag.

“Hank!” The RK800 clasped handfuls of material at Hank’s back. The topsy-turvy nature of his position combined with his father-figure’s emotional state made his movements jittery. “Please put me down.”

“Given your track record, I’m depositing you in your room myself, cinching the blankets extra tight and making sure you _stay there_.” Hank carried the android back, carefully avoiding the scattered objects along the floor.

The detailing of the human’s plans had Connor contorting minutely in the older man’s grasp. “T-that’s not necessary. I’ll go to sleep, I swear! This is probably hurting your back and —”

A hand’s free-fall weight landed shy of a fluffy, detachable tail. Connor’s derailed chatter came to a halt.

“There we go. Guess we found your ‘off’ button.” The humor was mostly genuine, reflected in the marginally heavy pat that had not quite been a swat. Even then, restraint was threadbare.

Hank crossed the threshold into Connor’s room, glad at being steps away from tucking his kid in. And yet, he grew confused as to the growing rigidity that rendered his bundle quite frozen. He had the funny thought of Connor trying to play possum right there, while over his shoulder.

“Kid, what’s the matter with you? You playing dead or what?” He lightly scratched the back of one knee to get a response. 

The android didn’t have a chance to answer because when Hank flicked the light switch on, the answer lay in front of him. It was like being transported back to a scene from his own youth.

By the far wall, a nest of vintage acquisitions resembled a quirky entertainment system. Equipped with a Daewoo TV (with inbuilt DVD player), a first-model PlayStation, long-cord headphones and a bean bag chair, the area gave Hank pleasant flashbacks. Replace the emptied Thirium pouches with Capri bags and you had yourself a Millennial snapshot. However, a wriggle of his captive ‘detainee’ reminded him of present circumstances.

Hank set Connor down with a transition so seamless, the android’s jolt was a nonplussed one at his plush surroundings and the blanket that next enveloped him. Not knowing what to make of the calm silence, he propped himself on an elbow to address Hank.

“Um, I’m sure you’re wondering —”

“Kid, lie down.” Once the brunette complied, as promised, bed covers tightened and became their own entrapment for wayward deviants. “I can hear all the juicy details over brunch tomorrow… today. Ugh, whatever.”

Not a yawn, but a sigh this time. Before Connor could feel guiltier, his father-figure squeezed his foot through the blankets and gave a wan smile. Connor shyly smiled back, LED back to yellow. Maybe the man wasn’t too irritated...?

When Hank ambled over to the retro outpost, the flicker of optimism wavered. Then it was outright snuffed when en masse unplugging ensued, and Hank rose from a crouch, TV easily toted under one arm, grouped tangle of equipment in the other. 

“This stays with me. Two weeks.”

“But Hank —”

The man in question turned at the open doorway, raising an eyebrow. “Wanna go for three?”

Connor ducked further under the covers, stopping short of turning his back on Hank in sullen outrage.

“Now that we got that outta the way, I trust you’ll go the fuck to sleep. No more _distractions_.”

Striving to tamp down any churlishness, Connor promised a simple, “I’ll sleep.”

“Hallelujah,” the older man muttered. Deftly dragging the door to a near close with his foot, Hank could be heard stowing recently confiscated items in the nearby storage closet. It would’ve had a dramatic effect, to ‘lock’ privileges away within arms’ reach, but the logical part to Connor recognized that the human was tired and wouldn’t organize his own closet at this hour to accommodate armfuls of electronics.

Pressing his face against his pillow, hearing the grumbles outside his door, the RK800 thought back to a scene from a Disney movie deemed a ‘best ever classic’ by Alice. Ariel’s father had found her trove and taken it all away to punish the poor mermaid. 

Though Connor had to admit Hank had refrained from exploding his carefully restored equipment, at least. He also hadn’t destroyed any statues made in likeness to Connor’s crush… though Connor supposed he had to have a crush first… and then the statue. He’d never felt that way about anyone anyway. He also needed a fish sidekick… 

His sleepy thoughts continued on their strange trail, somehow burgeoning under the influence of peeking hallway light and Hank’s low voice. On the brink of stasis, he caught one last phrase quite clearly.

“Pft. My son, the gamer. Good fuckin’ grief.” 

Yellow instantly changed to blue and an intricate physiognomy smoothed over. 

Actually, the android had to admit that the blankets felt kind of nice this way, with this added stronghold. And he shouldn’t be neglecting sleep, no matter how fun gaming was turning out to be or how it made him feel closer to Hank. Hm, Hank was still next to his door…

“Good night, Dad.” Muddled by oncoming stasis, he hoped his message carried.

A moment later, the door creaked slightly and a resignedly affectionate voice answered, “Night, son.” 

Connor smiled, finally sinking into Dream Mode. Sounds of fading clicks and footsteps signaled an all-too welcome denouement to exhaustion. 

* * *

It was now 6 a.m. and Hank was _glad_ he couldn’t sleep. He swore it was totally cool. And why? Because now was the time for some homemade, heartfelt payback. Bitter lethargy miraculously dissipated once he decided on a plan of ‘attack.’

A bagel and coffee begat further positivity, with Hank eventually being able to shrug at the spillage characterizing part of his house. There lay the results of a ransacked table… and Sumo in a yoga-esque stretch that consumed the better parts of two entranceways. No need to access the closet anytime soon, but he’d have to find a way to maneuver around Sumo to visit the repurposed garage.

Oh, yes, he had a literal rude awakening planned for that kid.

He almost went ahead until a subtle bell toll stopped him in his tracks. Hank was still getting used to the sound of the small, pendulum clock that marked Connor’s first garage sale purchase. Come to think of it, that’s probably where the other 20th century stuff had come from as well. And Hank had been too distracted by the jazz vinyls — something Connor had pointed out to him at the sale — to notice.

The little sneak.

For all the crap from last night, the android should also be woken at a godawful hour. That’s what the prankster side to his Dadness said. There was that other part, of course, that naturally insisted he promote restfulness for the young prototype. 

He gave in and decided on a more lenient compromise, particularly after imagining Connor doing that funny snore thing he sometimes did when he was very tired. And hey, he’d use the time to clean up the worst of the mess that lingered between bedrooms. So what if the context served the compulsion to stare intermittently at the louvred doors? It’d been a while since he’d done any detective work this early...

* * *

Connor was running through the clearance section, flanked by bizarre wardrobe options that screamed non-work attire. Among the neon and the animal-patterned apparel, one item drew him in, tractor beam in effect. Once he reached the fluffy, yellow apparel, he turned the price tag over and grinned. The Chocobo onesie was understandably worth just over $5,000, and crazily enough, his recent paycheck amounted to that exact figure. Connor hadn’t fully subscribed to the RA9 ideology, but with this show of destiny, he’d be a fool not to.

His foot mysteriously felt cold all of a sudden. Connor looked over and his left shoe and sock were missing. Taking that as a sign to begin changing, he hurried over to the dressing room area. 

Hm, his foot felt wet too. Had he stepped in something?

(“Pst, Sumo,” a familiar somebody called distantly.)

[ _Wait a minute._ ]

The dreamscape faded as Connor’s complete awareness came online, with eyes squinting at the unsatisfying recharge level and timestamp that he awoke to. An instinctive sweep of his surroundings revealed two figures that lingered past dream residue. 

“Hank?” 

As if to protest the exclusion in greetings, Sumo addressed Connor in his own special way, by effusively licking the android’s uncovered foot. The appendage was summarily retracted back into safety.

Face plastered against his pillow, Connor catalogued certain input as [∆ **GRATING** ]: 9:47 a.m. and its stupid correlative sunshine, gross dog slobber between his toes, and Hank’s dumb chuckling. Who could blame Connor if he decided to hide under the covers and request they let him sleep longer.

“Sod off.” Alright, so that may not have been what his Programming recommended, but Hank always encouraged that more natural ‘option E’ to his prompts.

“What the fuck was that?” Laughter grew more brassy; it was an instrument’s bell losing rust after drawing in air again. “Wanna one-up me with the British cursing?”

“Not limited to the U.K.,” could be heard from beneath the mess of blankets.

“As long as we’re feeling informative this fine morning, care to _inform_ me as to what the hell you were doing last night?”

“I’m tired, Hank.”

Well, that was the wrong thing to say.

“Really? I think Sumo can help with that.” 

In line with a chess clock’s tip-for-tap momentum, the two men exchanged parries, however contrastive in mood. Hank patted the top of the bed, making Sumo bark in excitement. Connor extended a leg to bar any overly-friendly Saint Bernards from joining him. Hank’s next move whipped the lower half of the blankets away, allowing him to poke along Connor’s bare ankle incessantly, ultimately signalling, “Sumo, attack!”

Connor grumbled some gibberish as he yanked the blankets close again, huddling into a ball. Hank pulled at the lower edge of the bedspread, inciting only more muffled complaints and a more closely guarded pair of feet. The result? The android had unknowingly made himself a likely target. 

Hank smirked fondly at the flattened torso and the tucked legs to keep covers trapped beneath him… yet more obvious than anything was the kid’s upraised tuchus. There he was, looking for all the world like a baby animal with its tail peeking out of the tall grass, adorably unaware that his ‘survival skills’ were backfiring.

Hank would let the prankster side win out this time. He felt spiritually obligated to.

There was a moment of suspicious quiet, where a patient dog acted as sole witness to both men’s strange behaviors. Sumo’s favorite android was tentatively peeling away covers to survey the room, and Sumo’s favorite human was grabbing a stray pillow and taking aim. The Saint Bernard filled the silence with some enthusiastic scratching, but almost fell over when an explosion of sound sent him into a splay of alarm.

“ _Hank!_ ” Connor yipped as he lay coiled against the mound of bedding he’d been rocketed into, in no small part due to startlement as much as a pillow’s gusting force.

To Hank, the whole thing had been reminiscent of blowing up a paper bag in church, of punching childhood friends with those giant boxing gloves. Despite the lack of harm, the man did feel like a jerk, though, when he saw the aftermath of his little scare. Connor was two feet further down the way, back pressed against the wall, with limbs still under wraps. 

And Sumo was giving him those terse woofs of condemnation. Great.

“C’mon, kid,” the lieutenant cajoled, perching on the furniture’s wooden frame. “I didn’t mean to freak you out like that…” The pause led to contemplation. “But damn, talk about presenting a bullseye.”

The heap moved. A few more inches were traversed towards the foot of the bed, away from Hank. 

“It’s like there’s a thunderstorm, and you’re wearing a fucking tin-foil hat.”

A leg emerged and when the foot nudged at him, Hank assumed it was a half-hearted push of some kind… until he registered the wiping motions on the back of his shirt and remembered the earlier slobber. 

“Hey!” Hank made a swipe at the ankle, which stirred forth the rest of the tousled android. Covers got tossed aside right into Hank’s face with a temperamental flourish.

LED in spinning quadrants of yellow and red, his complexion a dusty blue, Connor sat up like an affronted Push Puppet. “I know this is payback, as you’ve called it before. But at least last night, I didn’t _plan_ to wake you up.” 

“You shouldn’t have been out of bed in the first place.” 

Hank would swear he hadn’t planned for the stern timbre just then; he just wanted to slightly mess with the kid. He’d blame Connor, always bringing it out of him. Like now, the way he was collapsing backwards with a roll of eyes and lazily flicking a bedsheet to block the world from his view - deviants had appropriated adolescence and were somehow making it worse. Or maybe it was just Hank’s own RK800. Lucky him.

He couldn’t even count on Sumo for comic relief or stress-mitigation. The lug had already made himself comfortable, trusting the human and ‘droid to solve everything in time to feed or walk him.

The older man scooted closer to Connor, intent on rerouting this disaster. “Think of it this way: I just treated you to a classic wake-up call, internationally renowned.” 

Even partially hidden, the android’s frown was telling. If Hank had been extending an olive branch, Connor would be canting his head and regarding it dubiously.

“I shit you not. This is what they do at all the ritzy hotels. If anything, you owe me a $15 tip.”

“... I’m going to ignore you.” Connor turned away, cocooning himself back into a blanket burrito.

“Oh, yeah? Let me know how that works out for you.”

“And hibernate... ” The little shit was legitimately trying to go back to sleep.

“Nuh-uh-uh.” Hank wrested the duvet away until he was able to latch onto the back of a fleece pajama top and retrieve his miscreant. Sloppily reluctant, Connor found himself propped against the older man, and also trapped under a comradely arm. “Not just yet, my little Astro-kid. Let me tell you what’s actually gonna go down. First, you’re gonna explain yourself —”

“Ugh, Hank. It’s not like I was harvesting my Thirium for Red Ice.”

“You’re gonna _explain_ ,” Hank reiterated, nice and slow, “how you woke me up three goddamn times. That’s not like you, riling up Sumo and spilling shit all over the floor at fuck-you o’clock in the morning.”

“You’re making it sound like —”

“You’re stasis-deprived,” Hank cut in, point-blank. “And not to sound like a PSA, son, but you know the side-effects can be heavy duty.” _Because you’re a prototype,_ went unspoken. “You get burned out and it turns into an emergency standby thing, or your scanners start glitching and giving you wrong info.”

Brown eyes flew open, staring up with a hint of trepidation. Grey eyebrows rose with knowingness. 

“That’s right. I talk to your tech-physician lady. Gave me the rundown of _certain undisclosed incidents_ and everything.”

Finally looking the part of the repentant and grounded son, Connor clasped hands between his knees and glanced at the far wall. Hank didn’t want that either, though.

“Look, kiddo, I’m not here to grill you over all the work marathons you’ve pulled. I care that you’re doing okay. And if we have a weekend off, I’d like to think you’re resting decently so that you’re running on all cylinders by Monday. Not freezing up on fire escapes and plunging to your death ‘cause your body thought it a good time to enter a sleep coma.” Unconsciously, he’d begun rubbing the slender back beneath all the warm layers.

“Sorry, Hank.” At the woeful intonation, a scritch here and there joined the sweeping back rubs. “It’s true that I had been planning on staying up and then sleeping in today. But,” Connor rubbed at an eye that kept stubbornly drooping. “I can see now that I had the perfect opportunity to fully recharge last night.” 

“Hey, and it’s cool that you wanna stay up and have fun. Even test your energy reserves a bit. Just not after a week like the one we’ve had, yeah?”

“Yes… I suppose if I’d gone into stasis last night at the usual hour, this whole thing could’ve been avoided.”

“Most importantly, though? You could’ve gamed all of today without a problem,” Hank said, glad for the cheerier change of topic. However, to his surprise, Connor ducked his head and turned a telltale color. “Uh, is this a touchy subject? Why the blue face?”

“No, it’s just…” Connor gave a half-shrug. He became engrossed with pulling fluff away from his fish-themed socks. He also looked to Sumo, who was curled on another garage sale takeaway: a rug that suited a storybook grandma’s cottage. The idyllic sight was still not enough to rid Connor of his jitters.

Hank could tell something was off, yet nothing serious came to mind. The android was acting more embarrassed than nervous, for starters. The lieutenant had been wrong earlier when he thought he could playfully chuck a pillow at all of this, give an ultimatum and leave it at that.

Nope; this was going to be another chapter on parenting. Hank heaved an internal sigh, heaved himself backwards until he sat against the wall, and then heaved Connor up accordingly to sit by his side.

“Before we launch into details, we get one thing straight: you’re going back to sleep once I leave. I wanted to rag on ya’ a little and get some answers, but after this, it’s a solid four hours of sleep for you.”

“Technically, two hours would be enough, Hank,” Connor said, eyes still drooping.

“Uh-huh. Like I said, four.” The older man cupped Connor’s head down onto his shoulder after seeing the android lilting to one side. “After that, I’m afraid I have a couple not-so-cool things planned for you.”

“What do you mean?” A tousled head snapped back up, but a hand settled him again. _Damnit_. Hank didn’t need to sound ominously cryptic like that with the kid half-asleep.

“I meant errands. Mostly so by the time my own tiredness kicks in, the house will be deadly silent. You get to go out and buy stuff for the house. Maybe walk Sumo while you’re at it.”

“... Okay.”

“And an early bedtime. That’s it,” Hank said, going for factual simplicity.

“Wait, how early?” It was a good thing Connor didn’t know that as a quasi adult — or quite grown-up child — he should be horrified with this paternal imposition. Instead, he sounded every bit a man drawing up paperwork. 

But there was that giant lamb across his pajama top, so matters evened out.

“10 p.m.”

“11 p.m.,” Connor said, reminding Hank of an auctioneer.

“ _10_ , Connor,” the older man stressed. “Hell, I’ll even let you watch some **_Mystery Science Theater 3000_ ** with me before time’s up.”

The android pulled a face at that. “You know I don’t understand that show.”

“Sure you do. Just like you totally get **_Arrested Development_** ,” Hank added, mostly to rib the other.

“Why not one with laugh tracks?” Connor asked, not knowing that a light bulb suddenly went on over his father-figure’s head… paired with a small crack to an armored heart. “I like **_Friends_ **.”

“I never would’ve guessed with the way you clap along to the intro. But sure, we can see that,” Hank said, affection husky with the rare agreeableness. Feeling chipped away, he hoped his tenderness showed, acting as its own entreaty for Connor to be less secretive in kind. 

“Since we’re on the topic of 90’s classics, I still have a few questions.”

Connor hunched his shoulders a tad, not looking as sleepy anymore, but he wasn’t as wary either. Hank was glad to note Connor uncurling under his indulgent regard. 

The android sighed, as much to announce truce as to mimic woebegoneness. Still not keen on pursuing the conversation, he merely said, “Yes?” 

“So, last night, you raided the fridge for Thirium, but what about the bathroom? And the drawer? What did that have to do with anything?”

“I was looking for things to help with… maintenance. Things for my room.” The brunette sat up straighter, no longer leaning against Hank.

“ _What_ things? You being this evasive is starting to get really weird.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Definitely more wide-eyed than before, Connor’s wakefulness resembled alarm. “I only said I needed things for maintenance, like that time I needed extra light bulbs for my fish tank. You didn’t mind then.”

“Connor.” Opposite the RK800’s flighty gesticulations throughout that explanation, Hank’s arms crossed in a simple, solid movement. 

The kid was being vague, and when he did answer, he was reminding Hank of past events - a safe, already known answer. It was oddly comparative to what was taught in field training in regards to resisting interrogation.

 _‘Jesus,’_ Hank thought. _‘It’s like when he tried to hide his bingeing over that Thirium Icee dessert. Kid gets nervous about the strangest shit.’_

“Lookit, son, you aren’t building a nuclear reactor in your room, are ya’?”

“Uh, no.”

“Not short-wiring my prized amplifiers?” 

A shake of the head in response. 

A little more seriously, Hank carried on, “No tinkering with black market weapons?”

The shake to express negation grew more vigorous.

“Then I don’t know what to tell ya’, pal. That just about covers any worries I have. In fact, anything else might as well be pretty damn cool.” Hank’s side-glance held a relaxed glimmer. 

With the questions earlier, Connor had begun pulling at a rogue thread from along the blanket’s border. However, by Hank’s last words, pulls transitioned to flickers, with a strand being twirled loosely.

“It’s… complicated.”

“Try me.”

“It’s embarrassing.” Connor wound the thread tighter around his finger. “And you might not see it as 100% ‘cool.’” 

“Less than 100% is totally doable, remember?” The older man made a rotational gesture as a universal sign for ‘get on with it.’ 

Connor pursed his lips before expelling a rush of words, “Last night, in the bathroom, I was looking for the screwdriver set you keep under the sink. And in the hallway, I’d been looking for lens-cleaner and those microfiber cloths. The drawer only fell because Sumo startled me, which I know wouldn’t have happened if I’d been less, um, spazzy from lack of —”

“Whoa, hold up,” Hank interrupted with an incredulous grin. “You were fixing up the Playstation, weren’t you?” 

Connor stuck his hands between his knees. “In a way. Or trying to.”

“Heh, I can even imagine you looking up a tutorial. Christ, that takes me back,” Hank said, nostalgia making a reappearance.

Loathe to shatter the favorable impression Hank had, the android opened and closed his mouth twice before deciding on more truth. “I actually had help. It wasn’t - I didn’t do it alone.”

“Okay…?” The lieutenant questioned lightly, not at all treating this as a matter of concern. 

And Connor couldn’t stand it any longer. “I had help from someone called Jack, from Ireland. We met as a joke, as part of this PenPal exchange that was advertised on TV. It was supposed to be about discussing deviancy, about how we were coping. But then Jack mentioned a Moogle on our first exchange, and I asked what he was talking about… He started recommending all these online games. And when I told him I found a Playstation, he said he knew how to modify the lens for an interface so we could retro-play too.”

Hank was staring, expression unreadable. Connor pressed on through spiking nervousness.

“And I know you wanted me to socialize at Jericho or even at the DPD. I know you don’t want me staying in the house all the time. Or gaming at 2 a.m., given time zone differences and Jack’s schedule… But this feels like my first real friend. Jack was even going to walk me through the console upgrades.”

“Kid, far be it from me to - wait.” The dismissive mood changed gear as a detail registered. “You’ve been gaming at 2 a.m. _how long_?” 

“Oh. No, no!” The brunette backtracked, hands criss-crossing for effect. “We’ve corresponded for a month now, but I was mostly online with him while I walked Sumo. It’s only recently that his schedule became complicated.”

“But you guys were planning on making that kind of hour a thing.” While Hank’s statements were usually decisive, this one held a wisp of a question at the end: to give Connor an out, a window of opportunity. And as was Hank’s joke of Connor and windows, the android gracelessly crashed through to seize the moment.

“No, not that either! We were going to plan a better time… but on this occasion, I was too…” Connor made a hiccuping sound — a speech jam of sorts — and looked askance. “I was too excited, I guess. I can only compare it to how I felt around Christmas.”

“Ugh, God.” Hank resumed a one-arm hold around his adoptive son; his other arm directed a plonking motion through greying hair. “You’re doing this on purpose, you conniving little shit.”

“Hank, I’m being serious,” Connor declared.

“I know. That’s kind of the point. But there’s still something I don’t get.” Hank twisted slightly to better appraise the younger man. “So you wanted to keep your new friendship private. More on that later, though I kinda get it. But hiding gaming? Connor, **_Final Fantasy VII_ **? You pack that away like it’s the worst thing I can catch you with, when you’ve heard me go on about it. You didn’t even break the console out in our living room, where we could share that kind of stuff, make it into a bonding experience.” Hank tutted, then said half-jokingly, “Son… I’m disappointed.”

Connor, unfortunately, latched onto the non-joke halve and appeared rattled. “I - Don’t say it like that!”

“Hey, I’m kidding, alright?” Hank badly suppressed some snickering. “It’s really not all that bad; I’m just confused as fuck.”

“If anything, I wanted —” Connor deflated without another word, taking up stray threads anew and knotting them. 

“Wanted what?” Hank nudged him. “To figure it out on your own?”

“No.” In true morose fashion, a one-syllable word stretched into a trail of annoyed ‘o’s. 

Hank held his tongue when in the next second, the deviant grabbed a pillow and stuffed it between his pretzeled legs and chest. A messy push of hair followed: a nervous tick modeled after a certain human’s mannerisms. Just as said human was contemplating this whole ‘patient approach,’ the silence paid off.

“I wanted to be good at the game beforehand. I had this plan and I convinced Jack not to add cheat codes for once.” From under lashes, brown briefly met blue. “I do remember how you called that game one of your favorites. That’s why I was curious about it. In fact, once I reached the first versus-quest, I was going to invite you to play with me.” 

Frozen by his own use of words, Connor belatedly recalled an event marked by a similar request: Alice tugging on her mother’s sleeve as she pointed to a tea party in their backyard. Internally cringing at such a comparison, the RK800 loudly recanted, “I meant _team-up_ with me. To defeat Jack.” 

“Kid.” Hank’s endearment teetered between a sigh and a chiding inflection, aimed more so at Connor’s adorableness than any other debilitating factor. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Having heard this exact rhetorical question before, the android thrummed out a non-verbal ‘I don’t know.’ Hank couldn’t bear it any longer when synthetic eyebrows remained furrowed.

“I’m honored, is what I’m going for. You still wanna game with this old man? I’ll take it.” The mild wording was outdone by a distinct upbeatness in the lieutenant’s manner. “You’re something else. You just gave me bragging rights that I can rub all over Mrs. Duarte’s dumb-ass face.”

Frowning at Hank’s depiction of their neighbor, Connor was momentarily distracted from his self-consciousness. “What do you mean?”

"Ah, she won’t shut up about how she’s glad her daughter moved back to the city. But then she’s griping about how they never even get coffee together anymore,” Hank said with a shred of sympathy, which pulled a revolving-door disappearance. “And now I get to tell her I can’t fucking relate because _we_ still do family shit.” 

Speechless, Connor blinked the way he did when processing certain things: hot chocolate, animal sanctuaries, A.I. movies that denoted Life. Now it was Hank’s turn to look away with a sniff of nonchalance, albeit not far enough to lose sight of twin pools of chestnut brown.

“You can put the big doe eyes away, Jesus. I think you might’ve guessed by now, but you’ve officially won me over.” He rubbed at his mouth, feeling indents of sappiness he’d rather not disclose. “You’re still doing errands and sleeping early, though.”

“I know.” The whine was subtle; equally as discrete was a bashful smile.

Hank noticed both, of course.

“Welp.” Hank stood more fluidly than normal, creaky bones upstaged by a bloom of je ne sais quoi. “We can declare the case closed and the mystery solved. The culprit: a bad case of teenage overhype.”

“I wouldn’t call it that, exactly,” Connor said, confidence seeping back.

“Yeah, it is.” The lieutenant went about reorganizing pillows and blankets, signaling for the RK800 to lie back. Once the android did so, gaze questioning but no longer nervous, Hank finished by completing his second tuck-in in as many days. 

Propping an arm along the bed’s headboard, Hank went on and explained, “It’s like this: you found something new and exciting, you were worried if I’d understand or not…” He purposefully left out the part about Connor wanting to impress him, and play with him, though that was his favorite part. “... And then you played it out a million different ways in your head and got stressed. Does that sound about right?”

A couple of fast blinks settled that. But Connor answered anyway, “I - yes, I guess so.”

“See? Overall, you worried over nothing, Con. And sure, you wanted to keep some of this a surprise, but bad timing and all the secrecy shit kinda bit you on the ass.” When Connor shimmied under the duvet, looking ready to hide again, Hank amended his words. “Ask Fowler about a fucking surprise party they planned for me years ago - it’s funny _now_ , sure. But he’d tell you: it’s no use tip-toeing around me.” 

The android nodded once in earnest, as if making a promise with that gesture, alone. 

Wanting to end on a lighter note, Hank said, “And hey, turns out you were keeping _good news_ to yourself. A cool friend from Ireland, upgrades and retro gaming? All good. As soon as you get your console back, we play. No waiting until any versus-quest, deal?”

A quirky smile peeked out at Hank from beneath quilt patterns. “Yes, deal.”

That face and the double-affirmation led Hank to rest his hand over messy curls and smooth his thumb over a fine eyebrow in languid sweeps.

“I still wanna meet this friend of yours. And we’ll see about a plan for late-night playing between you two,” the older man said, voice a musing rumble. 

“Mm, sure.” Utter placidity coincided with the fourth run of a gentle thumb over relaxing features.

There was something about the resolution, about concerns being stripped away and reduced to such a thing as literal games, that steadied Hank’s touch. He lingered, wishing for these minutes to stretch into an oasis in time. And well, at least he _had_ these moments.

“Try to rest easy this time.” With a feather-light pat to the head and a needless blanket tug, Hank left the android to his stasis and called Sumo over to follow his example. 

Before closing the door, he turned to check that eyes were closed and that the LED was a peaceful blue.

“Four hours,” Hank emphasized to the likely off-mode Connor. He prided himself in how matters worked out: both would have a chance at their naps, and they’d still be able to hang out in the afternoon. All’s well that ended well.

* * *

“Where the fuck is he?” 

Could this fucking weekend be the least bit predictable and relaxing without some random-ass mishap stressing him out?

He’d pace, but he was already venting with Sumo as his sole audience member, so… not a good look for the veteran detective. Instead, he tried to act normal by simply jiggling his knee and pretending to watch TV. And _no_ , he wasn’t staring at his phone like some helicopter parent.

It’s just that the errands should’ve taken three hours, tops, and the time was well past that now. His natural protectiveness also couldn’t be helped when a news report had come on, detailing the latest android-targeted crimes near the main shopping district. Add to that that he still thought Connor might not be in peak condition due to on-and-off sleep cycles…

His phone screen lit up, and the notification chime wasn’t even halfway through before the device was snatched up.

“Tell me you’re not incapacitated, or in the middle of some dangerous shit.”

 _“...I’m not,”_ came the confused reply over the phone.

“Connor, may I remind you that today’s not a good day to have me wonder what the fuck you’re up to? After everything, with you not at full charge?” 

_“I feel fine,_ Connor contested. “ _You didn’t mention a time limit, and I considered giving you extra hours to sleep. I was also looking for food since I thought you might be hungry.”_

There went any and all annoyance he’d been feeling. 

Besides, Connor had a point about Hank not specifying a time. Moreover, the older cop really should’ve expected the RK800 to take to certain wanderings as was his penchant. 

“Okay, fine, you’re right. Just hurry back already and call when you’re on your way.” And then as a necessary precaution, “If you’re getting me healthy crap, there should at least be a decent dessert in there somewhere, you hear me?”

_“Hank, that defeats the entire purpose.”_

“I think we can splurge on a bite-sized Twix Bar to keep me sane, kid.”

_“Well, it’s irrelevant anyway. I didn’t get you ‘healthy crap.’”_

Hank hoped Connor’s fancy relay of cues would help interpret his smile over the phone. “That’s my boy.”

 _“Not a big deal,”_ the young voice brushed off. And then it was Hank’s turn, human and all, to sense that the android was doing his happy, lopsided-grin thing as he spoke. 

_“I’ll be home soon.”_

The call screen ended and up came his phone’s background display, which showcased a picture of the two of them at a recent Death Metal concert. Connor had even styled his hair differently on that occasion, trying out the punk ‘do. 

On that note, the world-weary Detroiter decided to let up. He’d stop worrying and focus on what this weekend actually meant for their small family: Connor was exploring personal tastes, pushing for fun, and making friends. His kid was growing up.

 _"But not too fast,’_ he reassured himself in jest. 

It was cause for celebration, indeed. Which reminded him… He had just enough time to get his own treat ready for the android. With Connor picking up fast food for him, the kid definitely deserved a more elaborate gesture than a ‘here ya’ go’ regarding a small present.

15 minutes later found the older man making final touches to a display in Connor’s room, when his phone rang. 

“Connor, you finally outta the mall or what?”

A knock sounded, surprising Hank. 

“Hold on - someone’s at the door. Better not be those damn kids who can’t even reach the doorbell,” he grumbled as he went over to the peephole. Sumo waddled in from the kitchen, giving a full body shake. 

However, rather than finding a set of neighborhood pranksters on his front steps, a familiar figure awaited, arms laden with bags and boxes. Suffice to say, Hank felt compelled to open the door. He was about to say something when a deceptively cherubic face poked out to offer a guilty wince, halfway convincing.

“I called,” Connor defended, cheekiness barely in check. “I meant to do it earlier, of course.”

“You and instructions. Color me fucking surprised.” Hank stepped aside, encouraging Connor to get in. Expert balancing let the android give Sumo a head rub on his way through. “Let me guess: caught up with Jack and got distracted?”

“No, actually.” Simply put, but the android’s voice took on a note of wonder at Hank’s casual acceptance of such a possibility. “New animals were accepted into the shelter today and I was helping with the news on social media.”

“Of course you were.” The older man’s appraisal turned softer, though the stack of deposited items on the table regained some of that acute scrutiny. Throwing out a demonstrative hand, he wryly remarked, “I didn’t know that carpet cleaner and rubber cement would come in three different boxes.”

The bags of food had been left on the kitchen counter, leaving the squarish packages to stand out all the more on the living room table. Connor took the topmost one, his hold nearing a clutch.

“I kind of went shopping. In this two-week hiatus from gaming, I thought I could try my hand at model-building. The store clerk recommended a Millenium Falcon drone, and I’d like to see if Sumo will chase it around.” In the absence of a favorite coin, paper-bagged edges were on the receiving end of energized fiddling, with Connor’s attention fully on the item in hand. 

Hank chalked it up to excitement. ‘ _Exploring interests_ ,’ he reminded himself with an inner burst of pride.

“That’s cool, Con.” He’d felt shitty about taking Connor’s console away, but now it didn’t seem so bad. “With the way you’re holding onto that thing, looks like you’re about to self-combust if you don’t open it soon.”

This time, Hank was the one being reminded of Christmas. Except instead of Connor eagerly diving into boxed contents the way he did months ago, he now shot a quick look up at Hank and deliberately slackened his posture.

“Ah. This is something else. I got the model for myself, along with a garage kit. But I got this for you.”

“What, really?” Hank jutted his chin out in thought. It didn’t take long for a grin to form once he was able to catalogue all the recent fidgetiness as signs of sheepishness. “Aw, kid. Wait, is this you trying to bribe me into a later bedtime?” The question invited further play on the absurd.

And yet, Connor had to throw another curveball Hank’s way. 

“No, quite the opposite.” To cover another hiccup of jumbled speech, Connor thrust out the gift for Hank to take, the very action saying ‘here!’ even if the android couldn’t verbalize it.

“Huh. Alright, alright.” 

Beyond puzzled, the older man sat down and balanced the parcel on his knees. He discarded the bag and opened up taped corners. Throughout the maneuvering, he was able to process the bold script that read **_Collector’s Item_ **on one side. And Connor was still standing there, disguising his wringing of hands as a cuticle inspection. Curiouser and curiouser.

Finally able to prise the top off, Hank envisioned a cassette collection or some eclectic mix of rare book editions. He’d received those types of presents before.

What he wasn’t expecting was a large, hard-bound printing of **_Go the Fuck to Sleep_ ** to be lying there, in all its mock-innocent splendor. A memory from 2011, the crude art of tigers under the title, the fact that Connor bought this… whatever the exact reason, the ensuing laughter loosened an overstayed tautness in Hank. It was the unclenching of a fist that had long since closed around thin air, a second too late. 

But he flexes his grip around this instant, a paternal palpation, because this kid is here with him now. This kid, who knows him so well already and uses that knowledge to work well together, to help around the house - to ask for bedtime stories.

Cyberlife sent an android to give him a heart condition. Cholesterol and stress would have to fuck off because Connor would be the cause of an old heart swelling and slowing somnolently to the beat of respite. And by God, he’d accept this permission to rest, if only to share this tranquility with his adoptive son and pass it down as his inheritance.

“Hank?”

Laughter had dwindled to a lasting sigh. Coming out of a daze, blue eyes found Connor in full head-tilt. 

“Kinda caught me off-guard, son.”

"I bought the book as a joke,” Connor said. _‘No, you didn’t.’_ Both knew. “I didn’t mean for it to… be weird.”

“Kid, I love it.” An inarguable, plain truth. “It’s fucking perfect.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Connor’s uplifted demeanor added sparkle to the modest response.

“We can give it a test run tonight,” Hank said as he stood to ruffle the android’s hair.

“Really?” 

“How can we not?” Besides, it’d be criminal to tease and give a nonanswer with that starry-eyed expression peeking up at him through recently-ruffled bangs. “Hey, how about you put the rest of your stuff away and I’ll get **_Friends_ **ready.”

With a bounce to his step, the RK800 took off with the other boxes. 

Hank waited, counting in his head. He turned to a placid Sumo and told him, “Any minute now…”

And right then, hurried footsteps circled back, with Connor rounding the living room corner to blurt, “You have a working Playstation 2. And the first **_Final Fantasy_ ** collection.” 

“I told you it could be a bonding thing.”

“And **_Kingdom Hearts_** , I and II.”

“Yeah, that and more. I’m pretty sure I left the entire bin of classics on your bed.”

“I know, but I’m still processing the games I’ve actually heard about.” There may have been sass in those words, yet it was hard to tell with the awe suffusing Connor’s voice. “But why is this all in my room? I was sure you’d think I wouldn’t be able to use it all responsibly.” 

And wasn’t that a laugh? This RK800 was certifiably equipped to handle firearms and hostage negotiations responsibly, but the temptation of gaming? No fucking way, Connor seemed to conclude on Hank’s behalf. The lieutenant would have to disprove that then.

“C’mon, I’m not that much of an asshole. So you got carried away a little; it’s fine. One week is plenty time to reflect and think up better habits.”

“You said two… weeks,” Connor finished lamely, having disgraced the filial code of keeping your parents in the dark.

“I did. But haven’t you heard of lighter sentences granted with good behavior? Not like this is parole or some dark shit like that, but Christ knows model-building won’t hold you up for too long. Can’t have you dragging your feet around the house. And I really do want to meet this Jack guy - hey!”

A vibrant form barreled into Hank. Two enhanced arms, already retracting to reveal white plastic, locked tightly around his waist. The Detroiter should’ve seen this coming, of course, given the tried and definitive list of Connor’s Favorites: dogs, feel-good movies and hugs.

Something like “thank you” was partly detectable, though only by its second iteration, when said into Hank’s chest. 

“Aren’t we cuddly,” the older man pleasantly noted, reciprocating the affection easily despite the teasing. “And don’t you go thinking fast food and old books will always get your ass out of trouble.”

With his face semi-buried, Connor properly elocuted the following, “I don’t know about that, Hank. Officer Ben keeps saying you’re wrapped around my little finger. Did I get that expression right?”

“Get offa me,” the man said, exaggeratedly pushing at Connor’s face until the ‘droid almost tripped backwards, trying to contain giggles all the while. “And you calling him ‘Officer Ben’ makes you sound like a kid.”

“Even if I didn’t, you’d call me that anyway.”

“That’s beside the point; you’ll always be a kid to me.”

This declaration could have predictably earned a betrayed frown or a smart-aleck comeback about Hank’s own age. In this enclosed pocket of contentment, however, Connor didn’t mind the moniker at all.

But Hank wasn’t done, and within the next breath, he elaborated. “ _My_ kid, specifically.” 

He said it the same way he would “leaf piles” after saying he preferred autumn of all seasons. A specification, leaked as nothing more than a prized reminiscence. And Connor had become that important caveat in Hank’s definition of the world: a disclosure of value.

A simple case of crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, Hank made it out to be. But Connor was sure the tips to his ears were blue, matching his LED. And a familiar thrum, purr-like, had spread through his chassis. 

Thankfully, the RK800 had the perfect reply. “You mean how, along the same vein, you’re _my_ old man.”

Blue eyes slanted, though Connor was sure that if Hank had a LED, it’d synchronize with his. 

“ _My_ old man, but not _an_ old man.” Connor affected the most erudite approach through his grammatical emphasis, dancing eyes not at all in tune with his flat intonation.

“Keep hamming it up, kiddo.” Another playful shove landed Connor in the middle of the couch, where he went without resistance. The chuckle and carefree face looking up at him had Hank spout, “Get cozy and I’ll get a couple **_Friends_ **episodes ready.”

“Really? We could watch another show.”

“Nah, I can stand to watch some of those season finales. Ross’ wedding and that Vegas one had some good shit on ‘em.”

While Hank went to fetch the nicer blankets for their TV-watching rituals, Connor glanced at the clock. He was excited to note that 10 p.m. was several hours away. He was sure he could convince Hank to watch more than two episodes…

* * *

Six episodes later had both men drowsy in the aftermath of uncomplicated enjoyment and ongoing commentary. Hank’s colorful critique made the entire process memorable, to say the least.

“Okay, time for bed, son.” Already standing, Hank lent a hand to the android, prodding him in the direction of his room.

It was nearing the set curfew and given the importance of rules, Connor had expected there’d barely be time for an exchange of ‘good night’s, never mind a whole book reading. Besides, he should’ve known... How silly to expect Hank to read him what would essentially be a bedtime story, joking or not.

Therefore, when Hank entered his bedroom toting the recent gift, the brunette dazedly paused midway through his turndown process. 

“Ready?” The book was tilted this way and that for demonstration. “Just let me pull up a chair. Wish I could use your beanbag thing, but then I’d be fucking laid up for a week.”

Snapping out of his trance, Connor tried to regulate the spike in alertness [∆ **_GIDDINESS?_ **] he received as he knew this should be an exercise in winding down. He didn’t want to discourage Hank from possibly repeating this experiment.

Foregoing his favored stasis position — curled on his side while holding a pillow closely — he lay on his back for better viewing capacity.

Waiting for Connor to get situated, Hank took a minute to check the copyright date and generally soak in the feel of a real book. Sensing the kid had settled, he glanced up, prepared to start, only to come up short at the _siege of_ _adorableness_ that barraged him.

There lay Connor, folded blanket trim neatly secured just over his nose, heightening the Bambi eye effect. The delicate clutch around bed covers belied an almost childish suspense in the RK800 as well. Retracted fingertips resembled a stubby, pawlike alignment on either side of the half-obscured face.

‘ _Connor can put other 2-year-olds to shame_ ,’ Hank thought. And on the coattails of that, what followed was, ‘ _Shit, pretty sure dilated pupils shouldn’t be on the menu if I want him Z-ing out_.’ 

But hey, when had this book ever really been about enchanting children to sleep? In fact, this whole idea gelled stupidly well with their family vibe, curse words, absurd spins on parenthood and all.

Donning reading glasses at the last minute, Hank leaned back into the swivel chair and cleared his throat in preface to the main event. Over his tortoiseshell frames, the older man took a final mental snapshot of Precious Moments, Connor Edition before flipping to the first page.

_**“The cats nestle close to their kittens,** _   
_**The lambs have laid down with the sheep.** _   
_**You’re cozy and warm in your bed, my dear.** _   
_**Please go the fuck to sleep.”** _

With the word “cozy,” Hank noticed Connor nuzzle his pillow discreetly, seeming quite invested and conformist to the narrative. 

_**“The eagles who soar through the sky are at rest** _   
_**Like the creatures who crawl, run, and creep.** _   
_**I know you’re not thirsty. That’s bullshit. Stop lying.** _   
_**Lie the fuck down, my darling, and sleep.”** _

Recalling the Thirium retrieval from the previous night, Hank thought it necessary to read the third line more engagingly. Cynic Parent™ counted as a story-aloud voice, surely.

_**“All the nursery kids are in dreamland.** _   
_**The froggie has made his last leap.** _   
_**Hell no, you can’t go to the bathroom.** _   
_**You know where you can go? The fuck to sleep.”** _

Using whatever props the story would give him, Hank grabbed this second coincidence and pointedly had fun with the stanza’s last two lines. His audience sunk into plush folds, sleepier eyes making a pass at the ceiling in a bid for divine intervention. To, perhaps, put an end to the theatrical ribbing...? And yet the game between both required inconspicuous smiles, kept stored behind bedding or behind a book. 

It was like a loom of simple and interconnecting bustle; a weave of comfort that made light of any lasting tension, spinning quaintness from a spool of twee yarn.

**_“The cubs and the lions are snoring,_ **   
**_Wrapped in a big snuggly heap._ **   
**_How come you can do all this other great shit_ **   
**_But you can’t lie the fuck down and sleep?”_ **

The story’s interwoven compliment fished an upturn of lips from Connor, the kind he couldn’t hide as its effect carried to the exposed, topmost part of his face. Hank approved, if his nod and chuckle were anything to go by in the interim between pages.

Hank reached “ ** _The End_** ,” after many variations of the last poignant verse, sounding quite at home with the vernacular. Both men dawdled over the conclusion, ridiculously feeling short-changed with the length of a children’s book format. 

“This was fun, kid, but it’s getting late.” Hank stood, arching his back while still holding the book close. 

“Yes, I know. Stasis shouldn’t be too far off.”

“Y’know… I have other books we can read together.”

Connor was already answering before Hank had finished speaking, “I’d like that. And it can be more complex - and several chapters long.”

“You bet your ass it can be,” the older man thought, envisioning the wonders of showing **_Lord of the Rings_ **to Connor. “And I can think of a few that will do the job and actually put you to sleep too.”

Connor curled on his side, getting comfortable. “But it doesn’t need to. Like tonight… it was nice.” The look he gave his father-figure could only be described as content. “Thank you, Hank.”

A casual shrug. “Like I said, it was fun.” Nevertheless, Hank’s gaze turned maudlin as it settled on Connor. “Easy moral to the story; you think you got it?”

A small snort was all the answer the human needed.

Rolling the chair back, Hank was on his way to the door, a pithy ‘good night’ half-formed. After a barely discernible pause, he walked the couple steps back to Connor’s bedside, sparking a dash of yellow in the ever-cycling LED.

The dash became a streak, albeit snugly surrounded by blue, when a kiss was pressed to the space between Connor’s LED and his temple. The whiskery brush of contact tickled, but beyond that lingering perception, the android’s systems quieted, stress levels dormant at 0% under a cloak of hushed blue. His pillows and blankets had become softer, the lamp glow more aureate. 

[∆ **_SAFETY?_ ** ] [∆ **_HOME?_ ** ] [∆ **_LOVE?_ ** ] _‘Yes’_ seemed to bubble to the surface in uniform answer, from a place deep inside. Amanda’s voice was long gone… this other source had a soothing baritone, the same kind associated with joking, advice and, more recently, storytelling.

“Good night, Dad.” Connor hoped Hank wouldn’t misinterpret the raspy static to his words and think something was wrong. Far from it.

As expected, the older man understood, using the back of knuckles to traverse from elastomer cheekbone to chin in a parental graze. Skin retracted in the wake of the skimming touch, sensitive as always to the Detroiter who was essentially raising him.

“‘Night, son.” Ambling over to the door, Hank turned the light off. Over his shoulder he said, “Go the fuck to sleep, alright?” The swear word’s inherent barb lacked all of its usual sting, rendered harmless by a honeyed lacquer.

Connor closed his eyes, shutting off functions one by one, unerringly guided into stasis without any throwaway hitches. He smoothly floated deeper, with vestiges of the day clinging to the last of his awareness. He was 100% sure he’d be having pleasant dreams.

* * *

A week later, Connor sat cross-legged on his beanbag chair, intake flooded with a screenful of polygonal characters and their blue speech prompts. For some reason, the whole layout struck him as surreal.

He could see Jack was typing, the ellipsis a distinct feature in the corner of his internal HUD. He didn’t understand Jack with his insistence on retro interfaces skins. Though who was Connor to judge if he had his typewriters and an old Walkman of Hank’s he’d grown attached to.

 _⎾_ Why is it that we’re typing again? You can’t appreciate the full extent of my Irishness this way!!! _⏌_

Connor tapped a bouncy finger against the controller and shook his head at the exclamation marks.

 **⎿** Hank’s asleep in the living room and I want to get away with more game time, so we have to be quiet. (•••) And you could always send a bunch of shamrock emojis!!! **⏋**

 _⎾_ Yes, funny and not at all racist, Connor _⏌_

The brunette smirked, delighting in the banter with his friend. He was sipping on his Thirium soda when Jack’s next line had him fighting back a projectile expulsion of blue drink.

 _⎾_ And don’t worry about your Dad! Let’s just invite him to join and play a Versus quest! I feel he and I hit it off :) _⏌_

He hadn’t even introduced Hank as his father; was it that obvious?

Connor recalled the overdue videoed-meeting from a few days ago, and though Jack’s exuberance tended to be rose-tinted, he was essentially correct. For what it was, both men made good impressions on each other, to the point where Hank embarrassingly told Jack to “keep Connor out of trouble.” 

‘ _As if Jack were the better influence_ ,’ Connor had thought. Some of that mental process must’ve shown on his face because Hank had nudged him with an elbow, telling him to stop pouting.

Alright, so maybe Connor could see where Jack would’ve drawn his conclusion.

 _⎾_ Hello? Connor? Were you busted by Hank? _⏌_

 **⎿** No. I was concentrating on finding my way out of this Train Cemetery. **⏋** Not a total lie.

And then something terrible happened, completely out of Connor’s control. A wrong jostle sent the clunky TV remote tumbling and, not interceptable, its volume skyrocketed. This colluded with a battle scene’s end, its iconic winning theme practically blowing the 90’s speakers out.

 **⎿** Shit. **⏋** Connor reflexively typed, unconsciously seeking some preliminary sympathy.

“Connor!” a sleep-addled voice yelled from the living room. “It’s past 11, goddamnit!”

 _⎾_ What? What happened? _⏌_

A stomping lumber of steps approached, and so as soon as the door opened —

“I was about to turn it off. I was just looking for a save point,” Connor said in a rush. In his periphery, the android could see Jack typing away all sorts of unhelpful advice, so he temporarily swiped the chatbox away. He was more preoccupied with the 6”2 figure towering over him with folded arms anyway.

“We agreed on 11 p.m..”

“I know. But Jack logged on late, and…” A sweater-pawed movement indicated the screen, trusting the beloved turn-based combat to speak for itself. 

Fingers drummed against a bicep for a complete cycle of blue and yellow until the stern stance was dropped. Hank’s exasperated exhale cued Connor’s own release of pent up stillness. 

“Okay, so you kinda got carried away. Missed your buddy and lost track of time.” Then after Connor’s nod of bewildered appreciation, the man deadpanned, “I’d go with that lame-ass excuse too.”

Connor sported a hell of a moue at the accusation - at the truth behind it.

“And let me guess, you need five more minutes,” Hank kept poking. 

“15, actually,” Connor side-murmured. The RK800 wasn’t sure this was a reprieve, after all, what with Hank’s brand of wolfish humor. 

“What’s that?” What would usually have been a cowing phrase was said with escalating mockery.

“Hank, the last two work nights, you told me to take it ‘easy’ — no late nights, no cold cases at home — and I did.”

“Alright, kid, I’ll give you that.” Hank backed off with a raise of hands that conveyed surrender.

“And we have Monday off too!” Case made, Connor rearranged the control in his hands and made to face the screen again. He didn’t entirely give his back to Hank, but it was a near thing.

“Jeez, Connor.” Hank tried hard to keep a straight face. “I get it now. I’m being a pushy schmuck and you deserve a fucking break.”

“... You’re not a schmuck.”

“Sure I am,” Hank corrected with smugness. “Tell you what: you keep playing while I watch the 7th season finale of **_Game of Thrones_** , original version. Episode’s up, that’ll be our reminder to clock off.”

“Sounds fair,” Connor agreed with curious hesitation. “Why that episode? You usually avoid Season 7.”

“The finale’s an extra 15 minutes long.”

Connor twisted to see Hank properly, casting an air of dawning gratefulness. 

“I’m giving you extra time to Level Up, got that?” the older man challenged fondly, tugging on the pom-pom that gave the final touch to Connor’s Moogle hoodie… but also gave him anglerfish-like properties. The kid looked ridiculously _cute_ . That was probably why Hank had barged in, ready to scold the guy, but couldn’t get far once the mixed scene of Connor jamming buttons and **_Final Fantasy_ ** apparel took over. 

“Hank, stop! This hoodie’s vintage!” A hand darted out to quickly shield the swaying puffball.

“Kid, I’m kind of aware. Or did I forget to tell you I was balls-deep in knockoff ads before I found the real thing?”

“That’s why it’s important to me.” Connor neatened the springy antenna, ignoring the natural drooping that occurred once left alone. 

The android let out a startled squeak when his ear was tugged next through the terry cloth hood. The grip was gentle and playful, followed by an affectionate squeeze of his nape. 

“Hey!” In contrast with the exclamative fuss, the use of inflection was the furthest from annoyance.

With an absentminded, trailing contact across the android’s curved spine, Hank decided he’d bothered his kid enough. “I’ll leave you to your fun, then. Say ‘hi’ to Jack for me.”

“Thanks, Hank.”

“It’s cool, kiddo. Like you said, you’ve earned it.” The open sincerity of those words made Connor beam. “I’ll leave the door open so Sumo can feel free to join you.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea.”

A huff of amusement answered him. As Hank moved down the hall, he issued a more familiar bark of vexation. “Your room looks like shit, by the way.”

“Right. I’ll clean it soon.” Connor wiggled side to side, trying to get comfortable on the beanbag.

“If I ever go in there and step on a chesspiece… or a fucking _Lego_ —” 

“Hank, I don’t own Legos.” A thumb impatiently hovered over the ‘Start’ button.

“And remember to pick up your snacks from the floor.”

“ _Yes, Dad_.”

Connor waited when he heard no response, mild worry tingeing his LED. It was the first time he had used the familial term so boldly.

The RK800 strained to hear…

“Fuckin’ A, kid,” Hank uttered sotto voce, from a little further down the hallway. “I’ll never tire of hearing that.”

Gazing past the frozen gaming scene, Connor sunk into a lull, wishing to share a similar sentiment aloud.

A little louder, possibly talking to Sumo, Hank said, “Okay, time to pointlessly wish death on Benioff and Weiss for the zillionth time.”

Connor refocused with a snort at the mood change; the other man sure knew how to either add or strip away layers of emotion at a whim. Happy with the window into Hank’s inner thoughts, and his own plans to help meet him halfway, the android went back to his game with a full heart. 

22 missed messages from Jack, of course… The young humanoid smirked, preparing himself for an eccentric line of questioning. Re-accessing the chatbox and pressing down on ‘Start,’ Connor felt an uptick in [∆ **_ANTICIPATION_ **] and welcomed the barrage of stimuli. The most intense face of concentration lay beneath the outcropping of white terry cloth, Connor’s errant lock of hair a harbinger of madness as he charged into pixelated battle.

* * *

An hour later, Hank would find it hard to interrupt Connor, what with the kid’s huge eyes and the way he was sticking his tongue out to the side. He hadn’t even noticed Hank at the door with how entranced he was. The result reflected a feat of shameless lovability. And the man could hear the android talking to Jack about Chocobo racing too. 

Ten more minutes were a good bargain, and only then would Hank definitely pull the plug. Yes, definitely. Thank Christ he wasn’t the kind of parent that spoiled his kid all the time. Just sometimes. Not too often.

It wouldn’t do any good to let Connor know the deviant not only had Hank wrapped around his little finger - but that the rehabilitated man’s small world had found a center of gravity upon that fingertip. He was no longer careening throughout a void.

Or maybe he _would_ let Connor know, past these weekend indulgences of blue pancakes, ragtag gifts and movie nights. He could do better for all of his footing in outright honesty. And Hank knew life to be ruthless, so why not directly honor the spoiling, favoritism and exceptions for what it all was: love. And _this_ kind of love, a parent’s love, modestly exacted the most challenging of promises, like nothing else did… 

Tomorrow, he’d uphold this higher standard at daybreak. Hank would tell Connor to expect more of the same lofty treatment. He’d make paternal overtures while passing the syrup. He’d start filing for adoption, or bother Fowler into helping him look into it. Hank would adhere to these ideals over the span of breakfast so that in the expedited event of official fatherhood, he’d be able to join Connor in gaming, compete, and ask his son if he was _winning_ —

And Hank would throw the game if it got him a goofy smile and the sappiest twist to that goddamn meme.

  
  
_~Fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With all the time between Writer's Block spells, I created more Maplestory accompaniments, so please excuse the flood of visual aids :)


End file.
